


A Woman's Weapon

by XxScriboLegoxX



Category: Original Work
Genre: American Revoltuion, American Revolution Romance, Angst, Drama & Romance, Espionage, F/M, Historical, Redcoat, Romance, Spy - Freeform, rebel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 11:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 73,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15218237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxScriboLegoxX/pseuds/XxScriboLegoxX
Summary: A young woman during the American Revolution hopes to find a meaningful place in the world when British Officers come to live in her home for the remainder of the war, but soon loyalties begin to blur, and life becomes more and more difficult when she discovers right and wrong, and good and evil, is not so easily reflected by the color of one's coat.





	1. Chapter One

Chapter One:

There was something about spring that had always brightened her spirits after a long winter. Everything came back to life. The grey landscape melted away and was replaced with vivid greens, beautiful flowers, blue skies and travelers of all walks of life. She had loved it since she was a little girl meeting the people that cut through their land to get to market. Farmers, tailors, bakers, tanners, frontiersman, Indians, people who lived in mansions and people who lived in hovels. All had a different story to tell and until last year, when her father decided she was now of an age where it was deemed inappropriate, she had loved being able to meet so many different types of people. She would offer them a drink for the road, invited to them pluck the berries and fruits from their land. She was well known and loved throughout the New York countryside.

All these memories of spring flooded through her as she sat by the open window in the first floor drawing room. It was a day perfect for riding. Last year she would have been out since sunrise, not return till past midday, and return to the fields for a walk well into the evening. Yet today when she awoke to ride her father informed her she would be remaining within the house for the duration of the week. If,  _if,_ Jonathon finished his tasks for the day, which would be mounting now that the land was once again ready for cultivation, she could go out if he wished to escort her.

The spring had come and not only vegetation was walking back up, but the army was too. Disciplined regiments of redcoats would be patrolling, marauding hordes of rebels would be scouring, and despite her father's deep and genuine love and respect for the redcoats that protected them, they had something fundamentally important in common with the rebel army. They were men, and men, when their blood was hot, when they were far from the tempering touch of a woman, might do things they otherwise would not. It was for this reason her home had now become a prison.

She stared out the window, deciding rather than to make the most of her day, to think about all the things she could be doing today if her father were not so unfair. Her thoughts turned from the leisure activities she was not able to do to a more disappointing track and she let her thoughts wonder. Her cousin would be leaving to fight soon and she could not even go for a simple walk because of her sex. Sometimes she wished she had been born a man. Her father would not protest to letting his son out on a morning ride.

She had been lamenting her misfortune for nearly two hours, sitting with her blank sketch pad in her lap, when she saw the first rider approach. It was not uncommon for men form the city to come see her father, but what drew her attention was the red coat the rider wore. She sat up straight, chin lifted, and strained to see what the rider would do. If he were simply a scout he might turn a few hundred yards from the house. Instead he continued to approach and she stood when he was just outside the home. He jumped from the horse and tied it to the hitching post. She remained hunched over, watching him, and when she saw him coming to the front door she straightened and hurried into the hall.

The knock on the door was a loud, pounding thudding and the doorman, who really served many purposes in the house, hurried down the stairs, anxious not to be caught away from his post.

"Good day, Miss Whitmore," he greeted her kindly, a nod of the head.

"George," she replied and he opened the door. As he did her father stepped from his study, oddly angry upon finding her in the hallway. The soldier stepped inside as her father frowned at her.

"Jane, back into the drawing room," he ordered but she didn't move. She looked at the soldier, finding him to be of low rank, but he was as clean and proper as any English soldier you would find. She had once heard a soldier a few miles away had been flogged because his coat had a smudge of coal from a fire the night before on it.

"Soldier," her father greeted and the young man removed his hat, tucking it under his right arm, and then retrieved a letter from under his left. Her father took it, opened it, read it, and nodded. "The rooms are prepared."

She frowned. The servants had been opening up the house and preparing the guest rooms for weeks now, but that had not seemed odd to her until now. Her father always had the house ready for visitors by the time spring came. He would never allow a friend or colleague to come to the home without being ready to offer them a place to stay. Why a redcoat would be here for prepared rooms she did not know. After he father's warnings to her about soldiers, she could not believe he would agree to house any. The soldier put his hat back on his head and left.

"Papa?" she asked once the door was closed but he ignored her.

"George, have everyone ready to help bring in their things within the hour and have the cook begin preparing something to eat, a stew and fresh bread. Get the casks of wine out as well."

"Papa?" she asked again when George hurried to obey his orders.

"Jane, you are to remain in the drawing room for the afternoon, I'll not have you getting in the way of the servants. Their job is difficult enough without constantly having to maneuver around you."

"Papa!" she shouted as he turned and he paused, surprised at her annoyance. "What's happening?"

"We're to have the privilege and honor of housing five of his majesty's officers for the coming fighting season. You will be moved into the guest room beside your mother's and mine," he informed her as if he were speaking of the weather. He turned to walk up the stairs and she hurried after him. She was indignant.

"Why must  _I_  move?" she asked, hurried behind him, lifting her skirts with both hands so she could match her father's long strides.

"You'll not be sleeping on the same floor as five strangers, grown men,  _soldiers!_ " he shook his head as if she were a small child again.

"I should not be punished because they mean to use our home as a barracks," she argued, chasing him still. Her father was a man who could walk at an amazing speed considering how short he was and how plump he had grown. His legs moved quickly and he was always walking with purpose. Her own legs, much longer than his, were challenged to keep pace with him.

"You should be honored, my dear," he said with disinterest and he opened the door to her mother's personal sitting room. She was lounging on the couch, a damp cloth over her eyes.

"My love," her father said, voice full of affection. "The officers will be arriving soon."

"Thank you, Richard," she murmured, holding out a hand in his direction, fingers searching lazily. He went to her side, a smile on his face, and gently took her hand in his. "Will you have my tea brought up early?"

"Of course, my dear," he said and after a gentle squeeze of her hand he turned and walked past Jane.

"Mother," she began but her mother waved a hand tiredly. She'd never really recovered from a falling spell she suffered a few years ago. Jane had been with her when she fell from the chair, muscles tightening, arms spasming, a terrifying gurgling coming from her throat. She had flailed on the floor near a half hour and it was the only time she had ever seen her father cry. He had cradled her head as she squirmed, screaming for the doctor to be brought. He did not seem to remember in that moment it would take hours to have a doctor at the home. She had come out of it but had suffered similar attacks since and often was struck with debilitating headaches.

Not wishing to bother her mother she turned angrily and hurried from the room.

"Father!" she called, following him back down the stairs.

"Jane, do not fight me," he cautioned and she sighed with exasperation.

"I should not be forced to endure such upheaval. To move all of my belongings for a summer?"

"If we are gracious enough hosts they might be inclined to stay out the war," her father said. He was far too pleased with the idea.

She wished she could tell her father the thought of housing English soldiers was repugnant to her, but her only recourse was using the childish and selfish, though very real, desire to keep her room and her life intact.

"We have a duty to our King, Jane," he reminded her. She sighed with exasperation and the house seemed to spring to life in a single moment. Servants bustled, her father was barking orders, and the air was filled with chatter of excitement, wonder, and anxiety. She was ordered by her father to collect that which was of most importance to her in her room and bring it into the room her father had chosen for her.

Her jaw clenched and she obeyed with a childish pout. Her cheeks were flushed the entire time and she her heart thudded angrily. She wanted no British officer using her room as a base of operations.

She had just got the last of her essentials out of her room and to the new room, which she disliked immediately and was on her way down to the drawing room when the soldiers arrived. Just as she got into the hall there was a commotion outside; the sound of horse hooves on the ground, carts creaking, men shouting out to each other. She hurried toward her open window. Five men were on horseback, the officers she gathered, but a small band of soldiers were with them as well. There was a string of covered wagons behind the officers and she had no doubt they were their belongings.

She leaned out to get a better look and watched as the officers dismounted. Most of them were unimpressive. Their uniforms contained the trappings of the upper ranks but they did little to impress her. The other ladies she would speak with at church or spend the afternoon gossiping over tea with were filled with excitement at the mere prospect of seeing an officer. They looked so handsome in their uniforms. They would gush on and on for hours. Jane found them handsome, but nothing to swoon over.

One did catch her eye, but it had nothing to do with the spectacular nature of his uniform. What impressed her was his height. All the men she saw appeared tall, as most military men were, but this man towered above his comrades, back straight, shoulders broad, torso and legs long. Despite the impressive height he still held himself regally, body strong but lean. As he walked, she could see he did not have the odd gait that many lanky men his height usually possessed.

His back was too her as he dismounted his horse and handed it to a soldier, but as he turned to walk toward the front steps she was able to see his uniform more closely. He appeared to be a major, from what she remembered of military uniforms. He had a red sash around his middle, a gold epaulette on his shoulder, and a gorget around his chest. The saber that rested on his hip had an intricately designed hilt, but she could not see it well from where she was.  _Adjutant General_ , she observed.

His lips were set in a grim line and he squinted slightly as the sun shone into his eyes. His hat did little to block out the sun at this angle. He had a large nose and a strong jaw, but it came together well on his face. His individual features, taken alone, could not be considered handsome, but put all together he was pleasing to the eye. She was slightly surprised at how young he was for a major. He turned his head as he reached the stoop and she jumped back so he would not find her staring. She settled down in her chair, picking up her sketch book, and waited. She listened as the front door was opened and her father's voice greeted the officers.

"Good day, Major! Good day. I trust your journey was uneventful?"

"Quite," the major responded, voice not particularly deep, but still quite masculine. He sounded bored, and even with the single word spoken, Jane could hear he was of the upper class.

"Can I offer you something to drink? A bite to eat. I've had some light food prepared," her father informed him, sounding far too subservient for Jane's liking. She waited, ears straining.

"I will eat when my business is conducted to my pleasure," he answered. She listened to footsteps coming from the hall and heard him approaching. She waited, looking down at her sketchpad, and brought up her pencil. She left it there, thinking about what she should pretend she was drawing.

"I'd like a room with more than a single window. Two will suffice. Facing the east if at all possible. I rise early and retire earlier still. I wish not to have the sun disrupt my sleeping schedule."

His voice was disinterested and arrogant. She looked up as his voice grew louder and saw him step in front of the open door. He was pulling off a pair of black gloves one finger at a time. He looked around, evaluating the room, before his eyes found her. He made no move to greet her, his face bored and his eyes critical.

"Of course, sir, I've a perfect room for you," her father said and Jane knew it was her own. The reason the Major gave for wanting it were the precise reasons she kept it.

"And I'll not be disturbed between six and eleven in the morning. It is when I do my writing," he said, eyes still on her, but upon finishing he looked back to her father. He had both gloves off now and held them in his hand. He held himself like a gentleman but he had a decidedly rugged look about him. She would not have thought him out of place to see him in a tavern, swallowing down a pint of ail with a farmer or blacksmith.

"I will have it known, sir," her father said.

"Dinner will be served at five thirty," he said and she frowned. Her father, who stepped into her vision, also had a frown on his face.

"We generally eat around seven, sir."

"And now we will eat at five thirty," he said curtly. Jane's lips parted at the audacity. She did not like this man at all. He stepped into the drawing room and gazed out the window beside her, looking over the bustling soldiers. She felt her face flame at his arrogance. She'd not known he existed more than two minutes and she already detested him. "How far are the stables?"

"Just a five-minute walk, Major," her father said and Jane could see his forehead covered with a light sheen of sweat, cheeks flushed. He was clearly intimidated. Jane herself was nervous to greet him.

"Your stable hand is trustworthy?" he asked. "My horse if of great importance to me. He is not a tool but a companion and friend. Should anything happen to him while in your care, I shall hold you personally responsible."

"Jonathan Davis has been with us for many, many years. I assure you, your horse is in good hands with him."

"And is this your… wife?" the major asked, looking down at her and she swallowed hard, throat dry.

"My daughter, sir," her father said motioning for her to get to her feet. She did, forcing a smile. She kept her hands crossed in front of her, holding her sketch pad to her middle. "Jane, Adjutant General, Major John Reynolds. Major, my daughter Miss Jane Whitmore."

"Miss Whitmore," he greeted, holding a hand out for her. She placed hers in his and he angled the back of her hand toward him delicately. His lips ghosted over her skin, it clearly an obligatory gesture of respect. His lips did not maul her skin like many gentlemen who she had to meet in the past. "A pleasure."

"An honor, Major," she lied. He did not seem terribly impressed with her and her annoyance grew further. She had never believed herself beautiful and his clear lack of interest in her stung.

"How many servants do you employ?" he asked her father, looking out the window once more before turning and walking back to the hallway.

"Twenty-five, sir," her father told him, following.

"I'll have no one enter my quarters without permission. I can make my own bed, prepare my own laundry, I shall deliver it to your laundress every Sunday. It shall be done the same day."

"I will tell her at once," her father said and Jane followed them into the hall, unnoticed by both. Standing, she came to the Major's shoulders. She was not used to being towered over in such a manner. She was tall for a woman. Her father had told her once, quite cruelly, though it had not been his intention, that she had a jaw too square for a woman and height resembling that of a man. Most of her suitors in the past had either been negligibly taller, the same height, or even slightly shorter.

"I do not eat lamb. I enjoy fish and beef is tolerable. Chicken upsets my stomach. I'll not touch it. Steaks shall be prepared irregularly," he instructed, continuing on through the house. Jane walked backward slowly and once she felt the door at her back, opened it as quietly as she could and stepped outside. She passed two soldiers carrying in a large chest and held the door open for them. They thanked her. Their arms trembled and sweat dribbled down their temples.

She moved past the bustle of soldiers, most not paying her any mind, focused on the task at hand. She walked down toward the stables at a brisk pace, wishing to speak to Jonathon. She passed a few soldiers as she went, but none of them did more than stare at her just a little too long.

"Jonathan?" she called as she arrived at the stables. She waited a moment and sure enough he stepped outside, holding a rag in his dirty hands.

"Have you come to ride?" he asked. "I had Constantine ready this morning but you didn't come."

He ran a hand through his hair, flipping the blond mess to the side. His clothing was filthy, as it always was, but his grey eyes twinkled and he had a little smile on his lips.

"No, have you heard what's happening?" she asked, coming closer to him. He frowned.

"I saw some soldiers," he said, motioning toward his left with the rag still in his hand. "Is everything alright?"

"My father invited soldiers to lodge there," she explained. "A rather infuriating Major is the commanding officer. Adjutant General. The arrogance…"

"He's an English officer," Jonathan smiled. "Of course he's infuriating."

She glanced over her shoulder, stepping closer again.

"Why do you think they are here?"

"No idea," he shrugged. "But we are close to Jersey. You be careful. Men like that…"

He shook his head.

"They'll be stabling here then?" he asked and she nodded.

"I'll make sure Constantine adjusts well," he promised. She thanked him and waited a moment.

"Will you tell Hank for me?" she asked Jonathan paused and considered. He looked skeptical.

"I'll tell him they are here but… don't instigate anything, Jane. I know you. Let the militia fight, you just get through the spring and summer."

She frowned deeply.

"I just want you to tell Hank," she argued. He agreed reluctantly but seemed unconvinced.

"I have to get ready for the horses," he said shortly and she frowned at him.

"Are you going to see Hank tonight? Or Alex?"

"Probably," he answered. "I'll tell them. Don't worry. I'll see them before they leave."

A breeze cut through the air and she fought a shiver.

"I will return to the home now then," she offered and Jonathon remained quiet. He was thoughtful. Jonathan always grew angry when speaking about fighting the British and sometimes she thought his mother's health was merely an excuse. She was not so sure he would have gone to join the militia even if he did not have responsibilities at home. Her own interest in her cousin's enlistment only ever seemed to annoy him.

"Do not let him move Constantine," she told Jonathon before leaving. "The major will try and move him but I don't want him moved."

"If an officer wants him moved, I have to move him," he replied and she frowned.

"You can tell him no," she snapped, knowing the officer that would demand the larger stall for his apparent beloved horse.

"I am a stable hand. I can't say no to a major in the British army," Jonathon said, turning his back to her.

"Certainly you can," she argued, face flushed. She was angry he would not stand up for her. "Then simply call me and I will tell him no."

"Go home, Jane," Jonathon said. She huffed but did as she was told.

She walked back into the house to find it filled with soldiers. They were carrying in trunks and furniture, more items than she thought men needed when going to war. She cast her silent judgment on them. It was simply in keeping with everything she detested about the English.

With each step she climbed, anger rose. She was angry at the British for being there and she was angry at Jonathan for not showing more courage.

She went to her room, positive she would find him there. As she entered he sat behind a desk. It was new; dark mahogany, beautiful, rather large and facing the door, unlike her own desk, which was pressed up against the window. Even seated you could not help but appreciate the size of him. He sat looking down at whatever was on the paper before him, back straight, shoulders rigid, face set in a neutral expression, lips a straight line. His wig was white, concealing his true hair color, but he had the most piercing eyes she had ever seen and when they darted upward, turning his attention from the paper before him to her, she almost turned back around and left the room. He blinked once, waiting, and when she remained silent, a thick but well-manicured eyebrow quirked.

"Can I be of assistance?" he asked after a moment.

"I thought I might make a request of you, Major. If I might call on your honor as a gentleman."

"Oh?" he asked, curious. He rested his pen to the side, observing his hand as he put it down, before turning his eyes back on her. "Have you been harassed? I'll have them flogged at once."

"No, sir," she frowned. "No… no one has said a word to me."

"I have found a glance can be just as offensive as a word."

She took note that he was willing to have a man flogged for a glance.

"It is actually something totally within your control," she informed him. He waited, not offering a response. "I was hopeful that you would not move my horse from his stall. I understand you care for your horse, but I care for mine as well and I do not wish him to be uprooted. He can be temperamental when his schedule is disturbed."

"Is the stall so much more desirable than the others that you fear I would demand it?" he asked.

"All stalls are very good, but it is the largest," she admitted to him.

"I shall grant you this favor," he said and her eyebrows rose at the way his assent was worded. It was hardly a great favor.

"And should another officer demand it?" she asked. He looked back up from his paper, apparently annoyed.

"I shall make it clear the stall shall not be touched," he assured her.

"Thank you, Major. And I trust you will not rearrange my room too drastically," she added and turned to leave. He stopped her in the doorway.

"You should be pleased, Miss Whitmore, that you are able to serve the army in such a way. Your King would thank you for your loyal service."

When she turned he was standing, walking around the side of the desk, fingers pressed to maps laid out on his desk.

"Perhaps you should consider placing your womanish desires and fancies to the side and instead focus on your duty as a loyal subject to his Majesty the King," he said. "Sacrifice, Miss Whitmore. We all must make one. As a woman, yours should be no less difficult than a man's."

"I am perfectly willing to make sacrifice," she answered as calmly as she could. If she had the smallest opportunity to sacrifice something for the patriot cause, she would do so in a heartbeat. Jonathan's hesitancy came back to her mind and her contempt for him grew.

"Then do so," he answered. "And do so with pride."

He stepped past her.

"We all must play our role, Miss Whitmore. Yours is no less important than mine," he lectured and she was surprised to find he was not being disingenuous as he said it. "If you would only embrace it, you might not find yourself so… choleric."

He stood in the doorway, motioning to the hallway, face unmovable.

"Now, if you would please, I've much work to see to before dinner," he informed her. She felt her cheeks burn red and she gave him a smile, tight and forced. His own mouth morphed into a tight and uncomfortable smile, both as obvious as the other.

"I look forward to seeing you again at five thirty, Major. I only trust you will find my mood more agreeable. I do not wish to cause any discomfort to one of his majesty's marines."

"I am quite certain I will find your mood far more pleasing," he agreed. Her smiled turned yet more wooden as she looked up at him, straining her neck to hold eye contact. That was not a kind gesture to display good faith. It sounded dangerously like an order to her, a  _warning_. She held eye contact with him, her eyes as hard as his, her smile as stiff, her jaw as clenched.

"Good day to you, sir. If you have any need of me, please do not hesitate to call for me."

"I shan't," he told her, stepped back, and slowly closed the door in her face.

* * *

Her father knew her well enough to know the headache she professed to have was at the very least not bad enough to get out of dinner with five of England's most esteemed gentleman. In truth, she was not in the slightest bit of discomfort but she was so enraged by the situation in which she now found herself that she had hoped to avoid a night of conversation with them.

She had hoped to avoid the necessity of smiling prettily, pretending they were the most interesting men in all the world. She would be forced to pretend their accents were enough to make her fall in love with a single hearing of them. She would be forced to pretend that their ranks made them more respectable than any other gentleman she'd ever had the pleasure of knowing. She had grown well adept to deceiving men in such a way, having to pretend she would ever marry any of the men her father had put in front of her, only to refuse out right once she was alone with her father.

She simply did not want to have to go through the effort tonight. She was too tired to fake the smiles and giggles. She had done what she considered a very good job faking illness, but her father considered it inexcusable to be absent from the welcoming dinner. It was to be a grand affair, despite it's incredibly early start time. She had a terrible fear he meant to drag her out should any of the officers be bachelors. Her only consolation was the hope that she would not be forced to converse too much with Major Reynolds. She had a strong belief that he would not be one to open the conversation and she certainly planned on keeping her distance from him.

 _As long as father does not force me into his company_ , she thought darkly, preparing herself for the tightening of the stay. He was young enough, he was distinguished enough, and if he was rich enough, her father would be making offers for her dowry within a fortnight. She shivered in disgust, but decided it was far too premature a worry to concern herself with just yet.

"Deep breath, miss," Rebecca said. Rebecca was a small woman. She had a small, hesitant voice. She always sounded as though she was unsure of what to say. She had red cheeks and dull brown hair. She was not ugly but nothing special to look at. Jane obeyed and sucked in a deep breath. As she did Rebecca yanked hard. She felt the stay tighten around her, pulling everything in painfully. She let out the breath once it was tied, and as she took in another, she felt the familiar constriction around her waist and ribs.

"Too tight, Miss?"

"If it was not I would be wearing it improperly," she breathed, touching her ribs. Rebecca returned her smile and moved to collect the extra pins for her hair. She did not put them in, instead placing them on her desk, and went to fetch the gown.

"It is all very exciting isn't it, Miss? Such a sight in their uniforms, marching about the place," she smiled dreamily as she thought of it. Jane forced a smile and looked to the mirror. "I do so love this dress miss. A very good choice."

"Thank you, Rebecca," she said but felt it was a little too much for the occasion. Of course, she was certain if George Washington were to come to her dinner table she would have worn this very gown. She had to remember this was supposed to be of great importance to her.

"It is of the colonial style," she mused. "I doubt any of them will be impressed with it."

"I have heard the English prefer the French style, the colonies, the English style, and the French find the colonial style… charming," she answered, reaching for the pins. "I read it, I did."

Jane knew full well Rebecca could not read.

"I would not be so surprised," she answered. She ran her hands over the bodice, making sure the edge of her stomacher was not visible. "I've no real interest to impress to them… certainly not Major Reynolds."

"Thinks he's the master of the house now Miss. I was terribly scolded when I brought up the towels he asked for. 'In England we fold them like this' he kept telling me. 'In England we do this.' Well, Miss I've never been to England, I don't know how they do anything over there."

"He seems an ornery man, Becca. Just keep your distance and he will not bother you," she advised. She grabbed Jane's favorite perfume from the vanity and brought it up, adding a conservative amount to her mistress's throat and wrists. She wondered if her father would be angry or pleased with her choice of dress. It one left her arms bare up to the elbow. Hardly scandalous, but it could be considered flirtatious.

"I still say it's exciting. Real gentlemen all the way from the mother country," Rebecca grinned.

"I suppose," she smiled back. "I've met men from England before. Mr. Baker came from Manchester."

"It is different," she said. "They live there… they… they are not colonists…"

Jane frowned and turned away, smoothing her dress out one more time. She knew it was her father when she heard a knock on the door and did not turn as Rebecca hurried to answer it. She gave him a quick curtsey, told him Jane was ready, and hurried off to fulfill her other tasks. Jane turned to face her father, face blank. His cheeks were flushed and he was slightly out of breath but he looked pleased, a smile on his lips.

"You look beautiful," he told her warmly and placed a kiss to her cheek.

"I am not hungry," she informed him dryly.

"Yes… such an early meal will take getting used to but," he held up a finger. "We must be sure the Major is in the best of health from here on out. He's quite the task ahead of him."

He offered her his arm and she took it, walking toward the door.

"Where is mother?" she asked, suddenly worried for her health and her father's good mood faltered a moment.

"She is feeling unwell," he said quietly. She'd never been the same after the falling spells started, but she had heard her father tell her uncle once that the headaches, the tiredness, it had begun after she lost the fourth boy. Her body, her father lamented, was too weak and it was his fault for pushing her so.

"Then I must be the only feminine presence," she sighed and her father chuckled, patting her arm. It was a responsibility she did not like.

"You will be the star of the dinner."

They walked down the stairs and made their way to the dining room. Three of the five officers in the house were present. She had not yet been introduced to them

They varied in age, the youngest being in his mid-twenties with brown hair, blue eyes and a kind smile, the middle had a face that could range from middle thirties to early forties. He had a nasty scar down the right side of his face, the skin wrinkled and pale. The third was a man in his fifties, but kind looking, with soft brown eyes.

"Sirs, might I introduce my dear daughter, Miss Jane Whitmore," her father introduced her and she extended her hand to them. The oldest man took her hand first, kissing it gently, and bowing deeply.

"Miss Whitmore, a genuine pleasure," he greeted her, voice proper but not grating and her smile was genuine. "Captain Frederick Ainsworth at your service. Here," he motioned to the man with the scar, "is Captain Charles Green, and here is Lieutenant Darling."

Both bowed their heads politely, backs straight, hands behind their backs, and she gave them both a nod of greeting.

"The Major is not here yet?" her father asked, almost sounding concerned. All three men looked to the clock, lips turning upward.

"It is not yet five thirty, sir," Lieutenant Darling informed him dryly. She looked to the clock and found it just two minutes south of five thirty.

"Is he so precise?" she asked.

"When he can be," she heard her answer from behind and fought the urge to close her eyes in annoyance. She turned, smile suddenly tight on her face, and found the Major stepping through the doorway. "My time is valuable." He turned to address her father. "Sir."

He greeted her father with a shake of the hand.

"I thank you for making this concession for me."

His voice was so dry and so emotionless, Jane felt it was an obligatory mention of thanks.

"No, sir, thank you," her father said with a grin. Her face flushed when he went and sat at the head of the table. Her father seemed embarrassed but not because of the Major's choice of seat.

"Is there not Captain Boswell we must wait for?" her father asked.

"Punctuality is a virtue. Should he decide not to arrive in time for dinner he shall not eat. Your servants worked hard to have this dinner ready for five thirty. We shall eat at five thirty and not insult their effort," he said, picking up his fork and knife. "And… I believe him absent from the house."

She heard Lieutenants Darling's soft chuckle, saw the smile exchanged between he and Captain Green. The Major looked annoyed, eyes moving around the empty chairs as if he was expecting them to suddenly appear in their seats. Her father noticed the look as well and took the seat her mother usually possessed, at the other end of the table.

She took her seat to the left of the Major but beside her father, and Lieutenant Darling pulled the chair out for her. She thanked him with a smile and was relieved when he sat between her and the Major, separating them.

The servants appeared almost immediately and began to serve the food. Wine was poured, but as a servant began to pour into the Major's glass he held up a hand.

"Oh, no, please," he declined. "I do not drink."

"At all?" her father asked, surprise outweighing his etiquette.

"Occasionally at home… however, I am quite far from home… and I prefer not to partake," he answered, the servant retreating with the wine bottle, taking away the glass that had a small amount. He watched it as it went and Jane could not tell if it was disgust or longing in his eyes. The next round of servants came in next, placing their plates in front of them, already prepared, and she was surprised to find Haddock on her plate and not the chicken that had been planned.

"I am quite fond of haddock," the Major said upon seeing it.

"It is quite a cut I believe," her father said proudly. The major raised his silverware without much ado and began to cut. The other's followed suit and she paused. Her father always began a meal with a toast to the King. She was surprised these soldiers would not make one. Her father hesitated but soon began to eat. She raised a bite to her lips politely but had no desire to eat. .

"Is it local?" the major asked. He held his right hand, knife in the left. The area between her eyes crinkled ever so slightly, noticing the slight discomfort in which he handled the fork.

"Uh, yes, caught just this week," her father said.

"Indeed," the major responded. He still had not brought the meat to his lips, but he had a piece cut away and held it delicately before him. "Is there a good fishing spot nearby?"

"Oh yes! Many!" her father said with excitement. "If you would do me the honor I will show you when you have time to take a break from your busy schedule."

"It would be my privilege," the major replied dryly. "I enjoy fishing."

"There are many streams on my own land you might enjoy, a small river that leads to a large one I do not own. Do you know the southern road toward Jersey that runs through Everton?"

"I know every road there is to know in this colony and the next," the major replied, bringing the fish to his mouth. He placed it in his mouth. He paused a half second, tasting it, and then began to chew, slowly and methodically.

"Have you been in the colonies long?" her father asked. The Major looked up from his plate and said nothing a moment, blinking once.

"Yes… two years in Quebec and then Montreal," he explained. "My regiment returned home but the King requested I remain at the start of the rebellion."

"The King himself?" her father asked with excitement.

"So they said," the major replied, slowly cutting into his fish. "The letter I received bore the King's seal, though that he wrote it with his own hand or gave his own order, I doubt rather seriously. This is wonderful, sir. You have improved my opinion of Haddock."

Even his smile seemed smug and condescending. Her father apparently disagreed with her silent assessment. He smiled back proudly and looked to Jane. The smile she returned was genuine. She loved her father and to see him so genuinely pleased with himself brought her joy.

"I have a wonderful recipe for Haddock. Well, my wife does," Captain Ainsworth cut in and the conversation began to shift. She let her attention drift back to the Major as the conversation took a turn she found hopelessly boring. She never was one to find interest in gardening and fishing.

His eating habits were amazingly particular. It became apparent immediately that his movements while speaking had not been an attempt to remain polite when all eyes were on him.

He stared at his plate as he cut and once an acceptable portion had been cut away he raised it to his lips with a slow and steady motion. He placed it between his lips, slowly slid the fork free, and waited a half second before he began to chew. He sipped at, oddly enough, cooled boiled water a servant had brought him, and he did so after every fourth bite. It was so regular and so steady that she actually took the time to count. It was the same thing every time without change.

He was intensely calm, surprisingly quiet, and frighteningly intimidating. It was impossible for her to even know if he was listening to the conversation. He did not laugh when the table did, but she did not think he was a man who would laugh at jokes he did not find funny. Judging by his face, nothing said at the table was enough to draw his attention.

She startled slightly when he looked up abruptly, eyes locking on hers. She looked down on impulse, realized how obvious that looked, how childish and girlish, and looked back, once again on impulse. He was still looking at her and they held eye contact a few long moments. His face was neither aggressive nor angry, neither offended nor flattered. He continued to stare, looking almost expectant, as if he thought she wanted to say something to him. It became clear he would not be looking away first and she turned her attention toward Captain Ainsworth, vowing never to stare at him so openly again. For the rest of dinner, she felt his eyes on her every so often.

When dinner was over the gentleman rose to retire to the sitting room for drinks and further conversation. Jane was both offended but relieved when her father told her it was not conversation for a lady and that she'd best entertain herself elsewhere.

"Of course father, I believe it time I retire to my room," she said and looked around at the soldiers, not once giving the major a glance. She feared her eyes might linger too long if she did. She put on a bright and excited smile for the men with their eyes on her. "It has been such an exciting day."

"Yes, too much excitement will get you ill," her father agreed gravely. "Officers if you would follow me?"

Her father motioned to the door that led toward the smaller sitting room.

"I fear, sir I shall also retire," the major spoke, surprising her.

"Retire, sir?" her father asked, slightly disappointed.

"Yes… I rise early, difficult to do when you do not retire early," he responded.

"Our major here has more done before the sun rise than any other man on the planet," Ainsworth chuckled warmly, voice filled with admiration. "He does the work of three men."

"Why the King himself requested he remain in the colonies," Green added.

"I doubt it was the King," Reynolds said curtly, matter of fact. There was no part of his tone that suggested he was looking to force more compliments. He thought it, so he said it.

"Our Major here is a modest man of extraordinary skill," Ainsworth said, speaking to her specifically, eyebrows raised, a glimmer in his eye and a smile on His face. She knew immediately he was trying to foster a good opinion of him. Her skin turned pink in discomfort, but it looked like a pretty blush to the men observing her. She glanced at the Major. He looked uncomfortable. It seemed he sensed Ainsworth's meaning and share her aversion to the idea. Despite feeling it herself she felt slightly embarrassed by the look on his face, remembered her square jaw and height. She felt suddenly manish, undesirable, and her skin turned hot, eyes stinging slightly. She raised her chin, hating this man even more. She blinked rapidly.

"He is too kind to me," the Major forced a smile. "If you do not object of course sir, with the supervision of Miss Mills, I would be honored to escort Miss Whitmore upstairs."

It was a purely gentlemanly gesture. She could see it. He wished to be beside her as little as she wished to be beside him. She looked down at her feet. She just wanted to go upstairs and lock the door.

"Yes, yes of course," her father smiled, the only one pleased by Ainsworth's mirth. Reynolds nodded once and stepped forward, offering her his hand. She took it, forcing her own smile. It felt tight. She bid goodnight to the other officers and together they turned toward the hall. She felt Rachel behind her, following them on their way to their bedrooms and she rolled her lips inward, taking a slow breath. She had not felt so terrible since Mathew Sledge threw ink on her and called her an ugly freak when she was eleven.

She blinked a few more times and smiled.

"You must be tired, major," she got out. "Having travelled all day."

"Travelling is part of being a soldier. It is nothing to which I have not grown accustomed."

"All the same, you are a man are you not? Man grows tired no matter their familiarity with lack of sleep."

"I sleep well enough," he answered curtly and she fell silent. They climbed the staircase, which her father told everyone that entered the house was the widest in two hundred miles. She doubted that very much, but it was wide enough to accommodate them both. They reached their floor and he walked past his own (her old door) to drop her off at the one beside her parents'. He released her hand abruptly, letting it fall halfway to her side before she caught it.

"Good night, Miss Whitmore. May your dreams be filled with peace," he told her, bowing stiffly. She watched him as he did. Of course, a man as handsome as he would not find her desirable. His obvious wealth no doubt also played a role. What good might a colonial bride bring him when he might score a daughter of nobility back at home.

"And to you as well, Major," she responded, voice curt and cold. He stared at her a moment, hard and searching, eyes penetrating. His eyes were so intense. She feared she was going to crack, let her hard exterior chip away and burst into tears. Before she did, he lowered his eyes to the floor.

"I am disappointed," he began as he moved away. "Your mood seemed to have improved at dinner. I see I was incorrect in my earlier evaluation."

She stared at his back as he walked away, feeling the confusion coming from Rachel as she watched them.

"Better company had my mood improved." she responded. He paused at his door way, door open, and turned his head to look at her. It was dark in the hall, but the still slightly light day shined in through  _her_ window. His lips curved upward but it was a rather disinterested, cold amusement that was shown there.

"Very good, Miss Whitmore," he responded softly, nodding slowly. "Good night."

He stepped inside the room and closed the door softly behind him. Surrendering to her hot temper, she stepped inside and slammed the door shut as hard as she possibly could behind her.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two:

Jane held the reins gently as Constantine walked along the little dirt path into the woods. She trusted him to lead the way, certain he knew where she was going. She had gone to the same spot a million times since her youth. When she was presented with Constantine on her sixteenth birthday, she had brought him there almost every day during the summer.

Instead of focusing on guiding him she took the time to think about her conversation with Jonathan. When she had arrived at the stables he had Constantine saddled and ready to go. Her father had allowed her three days ago to resume her morning rides. It was actually the major she had to thank for her renewed freedom. When she asked her father over lunch one day if she might be allowed to go on her morning ride now that everything seemed settled, her father had refused outright. He was red faced and blustering.

The Major, who had just finished his own lunch and had returned for his forgotten hat, heard both the request and the refusal. When her father informed her that the number of English soldiers about the country side was a threat to her well-being and safety the major appeared offended, straightening stiffly as he picked up the black hat from the table, and raised his chin slightly.

"Sir, if I might interject on Miss Whitmore's behalf?" he asked. "As long as she stays on your property I do not believe she will be in any danger. The camp is some miles off. The soldiers on the land are under my direct supervision. She will not be harmed."

"She is my only child and a most cherished daughter, major. This is not a decision to be made lightly," her father said, the firmest she had ever seen him with the Major. He walked back to the door, the hat held behind his back with a curled wrist. He turned again and stopped in the doorway.

"The last man under my command to outrage a woman was hung by the neck until dead by my express order. That was four years ago."

He left and it was the next morning that her father informed her if she wished she could go riding. He gave her a terribly small area in which she was allowed to ride but made no requirement she be supervised. She did not see a single redcoat the entire time she was out.

A few days later, when she was getting Constantine from Jonathan, he told her that Alex and Hank would be back within a few days. Excitement erupted in her chest and she made Jonathan swear to tell her the moment they returned. Hank she had not seen since he left for school three years before, Alexander two years before. They'd attended school in Boston where, according to her aunt, uncle and bother her parents, they had become  _radicalized._ They returned to New York, but only to join a Patriot militia. They came home very briefly, but ere turned away by their parents and since, had not returned.

Jonathan was true to the cause, she knew that, he hated the English more than anyone she knew. Hated them more than even she did, but with each passing day she was rapidly coming to the understanding that he was a coward. When Hank and Alex left for the militia Jonathon had not gone. His mother needed him. It was the excuse he clung to and indeed it was true. Her mother would die without him, but Jane was beginning to believe that even if his mother was not ill then he would still not go.

When she had first arrived at the stables after her father first gave her permission to go for her ride, she had tried to speak to Jonathan about the officers lodging with them. Primarily, she had wanted to discuss the Major. He had agreed with her, but looked around nervously, frightened they would be overheard. She knew the risks were great if they were heard, but she was annoyed he would not take the risk. The only thing he would say in agreement was that the Major was as arrogant and conceited as a man ever was. When he came to fetch his horse for his own rides, he would never say a word to Jonathan of his own accord. All he would offer the stable hand was curt, cold responses.

Alex had given up his entire life for the cause. He surrendered his inheritance, gave up his good name. He would have been master of a grand estate. Every day he risked his life because he believed in something.

Jonathan would not even spit on an Englishman's name out of fear he might be overheard. He would not be executed for saying he thought the man was arrogant.

As she got closer to the little spot of their childhood she spurred Constantine. The moment she saw him her face broke into a smile and she nearly jumped from the still moving Constantine. She hurried to him, giggling, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He laughed heartily, wrapping his arms around her middle, and swung her around, her feet leaving the ground.

The spot was a little hidden oasis by the thinner section of the main river that was on her father's land. It was surrounded by thick brush, towering oaks, and had a perfectly sized dead log used for seats during the hot summer days when she, Hank, Alex, Jonathon, Mary Ellen Worths, her dearest friend, Mary Alnor and Rachel Brooker would come down and swim from dawn till dusk. She would often return to reminisce. The river gushed now with the melted snow and neither the sound of the water running nor the birds singing could match the sound of her cousin's laughter.

"Oh, little Janie," he smiled as he pulled back, teeth flashing. Even with the one lower tooth missing from a childhood accident, he had a magnificent smile. His blue eyes twinkled, blond hair neatly brushed, still looking the perfect gentleman, even in brown and green wool, some dirt on his face, and a musket around his back. "You look well."

"And you," she breathed. "I am so proud of you, cousin."

She touched his cheek and his grin widened, dimples deepening.

"Did Jonathan tell you?" she asked after a moment and his face turned graver.

"He did," he replied. "I know not how you tolerate it."

"I hardly can," she responded. "Most of them are not so terrible. I see little of the one called Boswell. He is always working or at some brothel. The others are kind enough I suppose, I try to keep to myself when father allows it. The Major though…"

She shook her head, looking off to the side, relishing in her hatred a moment, but she was startled out of her reflection when her cousin grabbed her by the arms and shook her.

"Major?" he asked sharply.

"Yes… Major Reynolds. He is as arrogant as any man I ever seen. I do not believe even the  _King_  is so arrogant. At least the King is –"

"Major John Reynolds? Major John Reynolds, Adjutant General in charge of the supply lines for the New England and Middle Colonies?" her cousin asked, looking as if he was about to begin salivating as a dog would with a bone in front of him. She nodded slowly.

"Yes… well I don't not know his purpose but he is Major John Reynolds."

Alex let out a breath.

"That man is infuriating alright, but I know not of his arrogance. We set out to start harassing supply lines but we cannot  _find_ them. Every bloody week it's a different route. It finally becomes traceable and it is gone. We asked around, it is not a secret who he was. Brought down from Canada because of his genius. The man can't be outsmarted."

That only made him hate her more.

"I'd walk in there and put a bullet in his chest if I could," her cousin muttered. He moved over to sit on the log, taking his hat off and punching it.

"He rides every day the same time," she told him, stepping toward him but not taking a seat. If she dirtied her skirt, her father would know she was not simply out riding as she had promised. "When he is alone perhaps."

He jumped up. His eyes were wild.

"I must return tonight or face court martial," he explained. "Court martial in the militia means a bullet in the head or a noose around your neck. Have to be stricter than the regular army. I'll inform my commander. He'll… he'll give instructions."

She did not push the subject.

"In the meantime…You could help," Alex suggested after a moment of though, face thoughtful, voice hesitant. "If you wanted."

"Of course, I do!" she cried.

"I do not want you to risk yourself but… you always did want to help the cause," he said.

"Tell me what I have to do," she said and he leaned back slightly, wiping his sweaty palms on his knees.

"Well... a man like Reynolds has a lot to manage. His responsibility is monstrous. He'll have information in his room. Maybe not the exact routes but… something of importance will be written down. Do you have access to it?" he asked.

"I can… his schedule is like clockwork. You could literally set your clock by it. I can get into his room."

"Janie… safely. Can you get in and out  _safely_? This is not a game."

"I know that," she snapped. She was tired of being spoken to like she was a child simply because she had been born a woman. Her brain was as sharp as any man's. "Please…  _please_. I want to do this. I need to."

He nodded slowly.

"Alright then," he smiled. "I can come back every few months. I can't give you an exact date. Get what you can and I'll send word when I've spoken to my captain."

"How will I know when you've returned?"

"I'll tell Jonathon," he said and she frowned slightly. "What is the matter?"

"He seems reluctant," she said softly.

"He will do this. Of that I am certain."

"Then you have my word. When you return I will have something of value for you," she vowed. He got to his feet.

"I must go… tell my commanders," he smiled. He touched her cheek warmly. "You are a brave and strong woman, Janie, and now it is my turn to feel pride when I look at you," he told her gently. She smiled at him, pride for herself beginning to grow, and kissed his cheek.

"You must promise to be as safe as possible," she told him.

"I will," he promised. "If you will as well."

"I promise."

"We will win, you know," he said with certainty. She watched him jump up onto his horse. "They have guns and money and men, men like Reynolds, but this is our home." He jabbed a finger into his chest. "We will die for it. They," he pointed in the direction of her house. "They fight to go home. We fight to keep ours free. You will be part of that."

As he rode away with a flourish, she could not contain her smile.

She was surprised when she came upon him a few hundred yards from the stable, walking his horse by foot. The magnificent stallion was an Arabian from what she could see, a dark glistening black, in the best shape she had ever seen a horse. Constantine was a fine animal, of the greatest quality and breeding and she kept good care of him, but simply getting a glimpse at the major's horse, she could see why he cared for it so much. He turned as he heard her approach but turned away once more without any greeting.

"Major," she greeted as she came to walk beside him. He glanced up and lifted his hat. "Is something wrong?"

He glanced up at her, looked as if he was deciding whether or not he wanted to answer her, and then looked ahead again.

"He threw a shoe. I do not wish to damage the hoof," he replied.

"If you go just a hundred feet there is a little path. It looks like it fades into brush but it widens and continues along to the stable. It is considerably less distance than following the main road."

"It is not too rough?" he asked.

"There is just one spot where you will want to guide him slowly, but I am sure if he is as well trained as I believe him to be he will be fine," she informed him.

"I thank you for the information," he answered and patted the horse's neck. She wondered what he might sound like if he was truly grateful to someone, for as he thanked her, all she heard was the same dry, bored tone of an entitled man being given what was owed to him. She nodded stiffly, tightened her grip on Constantine's reins and continued on her way. She followed the main road toward the stable. Because she brought him to a trot, she was able to arrive a few minutes before him. When he did arrive, it was through the path she had suggested. She was busy brushing Constantine as he entered.

"You must be very careful," Reynolds ordered Jonathon as he came inside. "His foot cannot be compromised."

"Yes sir," Jonathon mumbled. He glanced over at her, eyes hard, and she offered him a little smile of support, despite having received little from him earlier.

"And he mustn't feel pain," the major said. She looked over at him and found him standing with his hands behind his back, crossed at the wrists, one hand still holding the quirt. He looked gravely concerned. In the hand not holding the quirt rested his hat and he squeezed it so tightly his knuckles were white.

"Shouldn't feel anything sir," Jonathon said. The horse stomped its foot and snorted as Jonathon came closer with the pliers to remove the nails left behind and Reynolds stepped toward him. Jane came out of her stall after placing a kiss to Constantine's nose. She watched Reynolds' pet the magnificent horse's neck gently. Immediately the horse quieted and Jonathon was able to grab onto its leg.

"Oh… sir?" she asked him as she got to the door of the stable. She fixed a feather on her hat and he looked toward her, some annoyance in his eyes.

"Yes?" he asked curtly.

"Might I perhaps retrieve an item from my room?" she asked. "I wish to draw and have no more pencils."

"Of course, Miss Whitmore," he answered and she smiled widely as she turned. Perhaps she might be able to get that information today, and with his permission to be there no less. No doubt he would be occupied here for some time with his beloved horse. His voice cut curtly through her pride. "A soldier will be there shortly to escort you inside."

"Escort me inside?" she asked.

"Yes," He responded and he ran his hand over his horse's silky black mane. It appeared even in his concern, he had not lost his senses. He repeated dryly. "To escort you inside."

"Thank you, Major," she replied with a little bend of her knees. He did not respond to her.

She was slightly annoyed when the soldier he promised her arrived in an incredibly timely manner. For the soldier to have arrived when he did, the Major would have to had informed him of her need almost immediately after she left the stables. The young redcoat knocked on the door just ten minutes or so after she had settled down with her book in the library. The servant had come to fetch her and inform her that a soldier would let her into her old bedroom.

The soldier was a boy of seventeen or so, red cheeked, shorter than she was, and had a nervous smile. His accent was like that of Jonathon's and when she asked him if he came from London he nodded, gave a sheepish laugh, and said nothing. She decided conversation was as undesirable as it was unnecessary and she climbed the stairs with the soldier a few steps behind.

When she glanced back he was looking up at the ceiling, around at the paintings at the walls. He lingered at the tables with china and glass vases resting on them with an open mouth and wide eyes. He kept reaching for his back, and finding no musket there, would put his hands back in front of him. Once more he would do the same and she was intelligent enough to know he had been ordered to leave his weapon behind and felt vulnerable and naked without it.

"It is just here," she told him and stopped before the door. The soldier stared at her a moment, blue eyes blinking, and then he looked at the door. "Will you not open it?"

"It shouldn't be locked, Miss," the soldier replied and she frowned. She reached out and grabbed the handle, shocked to find it unlocked. She would have assumed if it was necessary to have an escort, he would feel the need to lock the door. She knew her father would not give her the key to her room. When she was fifteen she had locked herself inside for three days because she had not been allowed to go to the city with her cousins. She had not been allowed the key since. She was surprised her father had not yet supplied it to the Major. She could not help but smile. He no doubt lost it some years ago and had never made another.

She opened the door and was pleased to find the room mostly unchanged. The new desk was still there, facing the door, but her desk remained pushed up against the window, untouched. Her bed looked the same, though it was made a bit differently; the pillows arranged in a different manner. Rationally she knew it was simply preference, but she allowed herself to feel more dislike for the Major at the sight of it.

She moved to her desk and picked up her pencils, arching her head slightly to look at the Major's desk. No doubt it was the contents on that table that she had just been tasked in collecting. It was the very same reason she had an escort with her now. Two large maps were sprawled across the top, covered in ink marks, circles, stars, long lines and swirls. Along with it were stacks of opened letters, closed envelopes, and a little black book wrapped tightly with a leather cord. She looked away as quickly as she could, knowing the young soldier was watching her as she passed the desk. When she turned from her own desk, pencils in hand, the soldier was standing by the desk, blocking her view of it, back stiff. She smiled at him kindly and moved past him to her wardrobe.

She opened it and found the remaining gowns she had left behind still within. She would not need those until the first of the spring balls along the country side, and it would have been too much unnecessary work to bring them to her temporary room. Alongside the gowns were four redcoats, one dress, two winter, and one summer. The other summer he was wearing. On impulse she reached out and gently pushed them to the side, separating them from her dresses. It felt too intimate, seeing the fabric touching as it was.

Down by her shoes, stacked neatly to the right, just underneath his coats, was a pair of leather black boots and two dress shoes, buckles perfectly polished. She did the same with those, gently moving them to the side, before she reached for the bottom drawer by the floor. She pulled it open and frowned.

Her intention had been to retrieve her second sketch book, the one she kept hidden under her underclothes because the contents were not something a lady should be drawing. She had started it the first time Jimmy Wells had kissed her behind the gardener's shed when she was seventeen. He had since married but the kiss had awakened her carnal side and she had kept herself pure by channeling those desires within her into scandalous drawings, drawings she had become quite good at.

She momentarily forgot her need to get it out of the major's room. Instead, she was focused on the order in which she found her underclothes. Panniers on the left, shifts in the middle, and her stays to the right. She was particular about the organization of her things, and she knew the half second in which she opened the drawer they had been moved. From left to right it should have been shifts, stays, panniers. It was the only logical order in her mind. Only a man would put them in the order they were in. Her blood went cold and her face flushed hot.

"Everything alright, miss?" the soldier asked as she stared down at the underclothes. They were still perfectly folded, no fabric out of place, but they were quite clearly in the wrong order and she  _knew_  he touched them.

"I am fine," she said stiffly. "back away."

The soldier took a step back, a blush on his face, and he actually turned his back when he saw what drawer she had opened.  _That_ was how a man reacted to a woman's underclothes drawer and this boy was not even a gentleman. He was probably the son of a tailor, tavern owner, blacksmith, farmer... She reached inside and got her second sketch pad, tucked it under her arm, and slammed the drawer shut. She exited the room so quickly, she nearly knocked him over with the force she moved passed him. She had not stepped far enough to the side and clipped his shoulder with hers. He grabbed the desk to balance himself, and he chased her out the door.

"Miss?" he called nervously and shut the Major's door softly. He had to hurry after her with quick strides. She moved to her own room, shoved the sketch pad underneath her mattress, and then reentered the hall. The soldier dare not enter her bedroom.

"Miss, please, I'm sorry, I didn't know you opened the drawer. Don't tell the Major, I didn't even see it proper," the boy sputtered and she forced a smile at him.

"Private, you did nothing wrong and served me honorably. Thank you. I am no longer in need of your services," she said, voice tight, and he nodded nervously, brow furrowed.

"I don't want to upset a lady," he said again and her smile softened.

"You didn't," she told him. "I will commend you to Major Reynolds."

He smiled widely and went on his way, reaching for the missing musket on his back as he went.

She went to her father's study, face glowing red with anger, and opened the door without knocking. Her hands trembled as she waited for her father to look up. He did so and concern immediately molded over his features. Even when she knew she did well to conceal her feelings, he always seemed to know when she was in distress.

"Darling?" he asked her, blinking rapidly. He hurried around the desk. "Your mother? Is your mother –"

"Mama is sleeping, she is well," she told him immediately and he relaxed some. A sigh of relief deflated him slightly. The tension slowly left him, but concern remained in his eyes and he touched her shoulders.

"What distresses you darling?" her father asked.

"He went through my underclothes," she said and he blinked.

"I am sorry?" he asked, face suddenly as hard as stone.

"I requested I might go and retrieve pencils from my room. He allowed me to with an escort. I went to check on some of the items I left behind and my underclothes had been rummaged through and moved."

"He? Major Reynolds?" he asked in surprise. She nodded stiffly, swallowing hard, cheeks still burning red.

"Yes."

"I see…" her father said, stepping back grimly. "This is… this is disturbing."

"There was no reason for them to be touched. If he opened them on accident I understand but he went through them."

"Of this you are certain?" her father asked and she only nodded, grinding her teeth.

"I will speak to him the moment he returns," he vowed grimly, brow furrowed deeply. She knew he would do nothing drastic. He would not throw him out even if any other guest who did the same would have been, but she was pleased he had not somehow managed to put the blame on  _her_ for leaving them behind. She had almost expected it. "And I will have your sensitive items removed at once."

"Thank you, papa," she said and ran her hand over the front of her bodice.

"I will make it right," he promised and approached so he could pat her cheek. She smiled, feeling slightly better, and he leaned down to place a kiss to her forehead. "My best girl."

He touched her hair affectionately and then dismissed her with a lazy wave of his hand. She left to return to her room. A small smirk came to her face as she imagined the look on the Major's face when he was scolded like a little school boy.

"Major Reynolds!" Mr. Whitmore called as he stepped inside, standing in his study. He removed his hat and forced a smile, giving a single nod, and moved toward the staircase. "If I might have a word?"

He paused and fought down the sigh of annoyance from breaking free through his lungs.

"I am very busy," he replied. His hand was on the railing. He had not planned to spend so much of his time at the stables today, but the scare with Alexander would have distracted him even if he had let the boy work on him unsupervised. Now he had precious little time before his five thirty dinner and his seven thirty bed time.

"This is of the highest importance," Mr. Whitmore said and the tone of his voice gave Reynolds pause. He considered Mr. Whitmore a moment. He had never heard such force in the man's voice and waited, eyeing him intently. He suddenly remembered his defense of the girl's riding schedule and had a terrible feeling something had happened on his suggestion.

"Is Miss Whitmore unwell from her morning ride?" he asked tightly and Mr. Whitmore nodded.

"She is well from the ride," he answered coolly and Reynolds swallowed.

"Your study?" he asked and Mr. Whitmore nodded. Reynolds fought down another sigh and walked over to the older man. He glanced at the clock on the wall as he did. A day wasted. He stepped inside and took his seat in front of the desk, waiting to be addressed.

"Major, I do not mean to accuse you of anything," he began and Reynolds fought the urge to frown in his confusion.

"I shall try and not take it as an accusation then," he replied. Mr. Whitmore's face was flushed as always, but the grimness in him gave him reason to belief the redness in his cheeks was due neither to the wool clothing he was wearing in such warm weather, nor the slightly overweight frame he possessed.

"My daughter came to me today and informed me that you had given her permission to collect items from her room?"

"I had," he answered, disliking the way the conversation was unfolding. He did not take kindly to interrogations.

"Whilst in the room she had gone in to check on some personal items," he continued and Reynolds felt his ears grow hot.

"And found them in an incorrect order, I presume," Reynolds offered and Mr. Whitmore looked surprised. Yes, he had suspected he had placed them back in an incorrect order. He had been so shocked by the contents of the hidden sketch pad he had forgotten the mental note of the order he made after removing them. He had hoped she would not notice if they were out of order, as he had put them back in as neatly as he possibly could. Clearly, she had a greater attention to detail than he had realized.

"Yes… you can see why this is a disturbing development."

"Of course, sir, you are correct and I, in no way, meant it as a violation or an act of lechery. The hostility I have felt since coming to the troublesome colonies has been quite great indeed. It makes one rather paranoid. Although I do not question your loyalty and certainly not that of your daughter, I always feel safer after a thorough examination of the room I am staying in. Rebels writings, flags… weapons. These things weigh on you. I sleep better knowing there are none in the home I am staying in. I understand that might be of insult, however –"

"Oh, not at all, Major!" Mr. Whitmore cut off, excitement as great as his relief. "I did not think you a letch, but she  _is_ my daughter…. My only child."

"I understand," he replied, a small curve to his lips. "I apologize if I made her uncomfortable."

"She will understand, I am quite certain," Mr. Whitmore assured him.

"If that is all?" he asked and Mr. Whitmore nodded. Reynolds stood, accepted his hand in a quick handshake and returned to his work.

Jane rounded the corner to collect her sketch pad before dinner. She stopped abruptly in the doorway. Standing in the sitting room by her window, the one where the west sun came shining through warmly and brightly, was the Major, his finger tips pressed to her sketch pad, examining it silently. He slowly flipped it to the next page. Quite clearly, this man had no boundaries.

"Major?" she asked. He turned slowly, eyebrows raised. "I forgot my book."

He examined her a moment and then looked back to the sketch pad. She felt her skin flush she was ignored. She took another step into the room and waited. When he did not look up she took another step. It did not stop until she stood in front of him. She pulled the sketch pad firm underneath his fingers, smudging the drawing she had spent hours on, and snapped it closed.

"You are quite skilled," he offered but it was said with that tone of his that suggested he was repeating back words he had been told were polite as a school boy. There was no sense of genuine respect in his voice. She forced a smile and turned, wrapping the leather tie around her sketch pad, securing it tightly.

"Miss Whitmore. A word?" he asked and she stopped abruptly, fighting back a sigh. She bit on her bottom lip hard, let out a small breath, and turned stiffly. She blinked at him, waiting. "I spoke with your father when I arrived from the stables."

"Oh?" she asked. Her face was set in stone even when smiling at him.

"Yes… I hope you did not misunderstand my intentions. I assure you, there was nothing licentious to it. I never once thought anything of the sort."

She felt her smile flicker. How often must this man remind her of her own shortcomings? It had not even been a backhanded apology. It was a bare faced and direct assertion that even when touching her most intimate underclothes, he felt not an ounce of desire. She rescued the smile on her face as best she could.

"I see," she answered stiffly. He cleared his throat and lifted his brow.

"That is to say –"

"You are more than forgiven, Major," she cut him off. "I look forward to seeing you at dinner."

She turned before he could respond and left the room.

Captain Boswell joined them at dinner that night and despite his apparent fondness for brothels and her immediate belief he would make some girl a very poor husband one day, she liked his company. His teeth were badly crooked but he had a bright and contagious smile. His light brown eyes danced with excitement every time he spoke and he had an enthusiastic way of speaking. He listened intently, answered joyfully, and had a wit that had Jane laughing more than once throughout the meal. His entire manner gave him the feel of a man younger than thirty-eight. He would grin at her and she had to admit he was certainly a charming man, but she had always prided herself on not being a romantic. She saw him for what he was and she made certain her responses provided no encouragement. She never giggled at anything that did not deserve a laugh and never looked at him unless he was speaking

He dominated the conversation and all the officers at the table seemed pleased with his presence. That is, all of the officers but the remarkably silent Major. Normally a quiet man at the dinner table, his silence tonight was bordering on the extreme. In fact, the more she tried to remember what he had contributed to the conversation since his initial greeting, the blanker her mind became. After she had placed her utensils down and began waiting for the men to finish their meals, she glanced over at him and found his normally blank face marred with the slightest of frowns. It was hardly noticeable, but his brow had the littlest of creases and his mouth the ghost of a downward curve.

She wondered what the cause might be and though she assumed it was the charismatic and friendly Captain Boswell, it was just as likely it had to do with the piece of ham he was staring at with his dark eyes. The fork in his hand was raised a little under a foot from his plate, a foot in front of his own body, and had a little piece of ham resting on it. He rotated the fork slowly, examining it in the candle light and she found herself suddenly curious as to what he was looking at. It looked fine from where she was sitting, but something about it had clearly caught his interest.

Sharply, without moving the direction of his head, his eyes moved up from the ham and landed on her. She wanted to look away immediately, but she knew if she did it would be quite obvious she had been staring at him. She managed a smile, one that felt real on her lips, but his own mouth did not move upward. Still, his eyes remained on hers and she found herself unable to look away. Her smile slowly faded from her lips. He did not smile but very subtly she saw him lower his chin in a small nod. His eyes then moved back down to the piece of ham.

"What say you, Miss Whitmore?" Boswell asked and she frowned.

"I am sorry, Captain?" she asked.

"Have you an opinion on the decision to hang the four rebels they found in upper New York these past two weeks?" he asked and she felt her skin turn a hot red. There must have been a change to her face because he immediately began shaking his head, regret on his face.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to bring up such offensive conversation at the dinner table," he backtracked and she shook her head. He was the first man she had met in a long time that  _asked_ for her opinion before he received it.

"No… not at all sir," she smiled. She glanced at her father, thinking over her words carefully before voicing them. "I believe the… execution of the four the rebels was…. An unnecessary show of might."

All the men frowned, save the major, who slowly looked up from his ongoing examination of the piece of ham on his fork.

"How do you mean?" Boswell asked, genuine curiosity on his face.

"The British Empire is the grandest the world has ever seen. The army," she said, motioning toward the men in red, "the most powerful, surpassed only by the navy… I thought hanging a twelve-year old, a fourteen-year-old, and a half-wit was unnecessarily cruel and… belittled the Empire's strength."

"You would have spared the traitors?" Captain Green asked.

"Treason is punishable by death, as it should be, however I feel the act gives rebels reason to believe the Empire is scared," she said and it was met with grumbles and she thought Ainsworth's head was going to pop.

"The British Empire is not  _scared_ of anything," he sputtered and she regretted being so forthcoming. "Colonel Chamberlain –"

"Has less military sense than Miss Whitmore," Reynolds cut in curtly. "It has done nothing but stir up anger and fear.  _The British hang our children_ , they now cry in the streets."

"They committed treason. They tried to kill a royal soldier –"

"With slingshots?" Reynolds asked. He lowered the fork to his plate but did not loosen his grip on it. "Balls of lead, bullets yes… Fired with slingshots."

"It was proven they were alerting the militia to troop movement," Ainsworth argued, voice not light with friendly debate in the slightest. "How many boys will not return to England because these  _children_  were complicit in their murder?"

Reynolds's smiled at him, but it was stiff.

"As I have said in the past… once we cut out the heart the colonies will return to heel," he said slowly, calmly. "Killing boys playing soldier will not see us to that end."

"Our Major has a softness for the colonies," Boswell told her, a smile on his face. She counted herself genuinely surprised and turned her attention back to the Major, who looked thoroughly offended by the classification.

"I've no softness," he answered sharply. It was the most excitement she had heard in his voice since he arrived at Whitmore House. "There is good strategy and there is absolutely stupidity."

"Our good major here believes we must be gentle with the rebels," Boswell smiled. "Firm but gentle, that is what you say, yes, Major?"

"I do not see how I can possibly blame a poor farmer from South Carolina, a rope maker from Boston, or a tanner from New York, for believing the fanciful and romantic lies being fed to them by rich men with nothing but greed in their hearts. What father struggling to feed his wife and multitude of children would not be taken in by the promise they would be taken from poverty at a flick of the pen or by the constant pandering to their  _natural rights_.  _Englishman_  in  _England_  do not have the rights to which these men pretend they are entitled."

"You do not crush a rebellion by coddling them. You crush a rebellion by  _crushing_ them," Captain Green asserted.

"One must find balance," Reynolds insisted. "Turn into the oppressors they claim us to be and all is lost. We must remind them of the protection we offer. Authority. Law. Order. A man cannot be free if he has no certainty his freedom is protected. That is what the Empire offers. The people have forgotten that and once reminded obedience will follow."

"You speak of the colonies as if we are children," her father said, a frown on his face. He no doubt felt exactly what she was feeling, without the burning rage. Rather be called criminals than children.

"I mean no offense," Reynolds said stiffly. "But the colonies are acting like petulant children and must be treated as such."

"But… but… many loyal subjects remain –"

"I mean no offense, sir, truly. I mean only to say that those boys that were executed were misled, lied to, and manipulated. They do not see what would come of them if separated from Great Britain. People like you, Mrs. Whitmore and Miss Whitmore can see the need of the Empire. The commitment between the colonies and the mother country. I shudder to think what might become of these colonies should they be successful in their separation."

"Thank the lord it will never happen," Boswell called, raising his glass.

"To King George!" Lieutenant Darling cried.

"To Great Britain!" Boswell shouted.

She picked up her glass of wine, looking over to the major. He had no alcohol with which to make a toast but he raised his glass all the same.

"And to loyal subjects," he said softly, murmuring into the water.

"Here, here," Boswell said and the other men hit the table. She raised her drink to her lips. Jane let the wine touch her tongue and looked away from the cheerful Boswell. When she chanced a quick look back to the major he was back to looking at the piece of ham on his fork, the frown returned to his face.

When dinner ended the major decided to retire earlier than usual. He would often sit for a few minutes after dinner until it was a polite enough time to go to sleep. Tonight, he seemed surlier than normal and when her father insisted he joined him, The Major all but shouted out his second refusal. Her father responded with grace, acting as if it had not happened, and invited the rest of the gentlemen to the sitting room for drinks.

"Might I escort you?" Captain Boswell asked her, holding out an arm.

"Oh, Jane will return to her room," her father said. She might have been offended if she did not want to escape a night of polite,  _loyal_ conversation with the officers well into the evening.

"Surely not," Boswell frowned.

"In truth, I rode quite long today and feel I would be poor company," she smiled at him as she finished her lie. "Major Reynolds will no doubt humor me and play escort."

"An honor, most certainly," he said with a bow, pushing his own chair back into the table. Boswell nodded but looked disappointed, and he reached out and gently took her hand. He kissed it, lips lingering on her hand, and she knew exactly who Captain Boswell was. She smiled and held out her left hand to the major, now around the side of the table. She had hoped to play the cold shoulder to the Major a while longer, but decided she needed him for a quick rescue.

"Good night, Captain, gentlemen," she smiled to the rest of the room. Her hand, still held out toward the major, was taken between his warm and gentle fingers. She looked to her father, pulling her right hand from Boswell, and he approached her.

"Good night, my love," he told her and kissed her cheek gently. "Major."

Reynolds bowed to him and turned to leave the room, not addressing his subordinate officers as he went. His hold on her was firm but gentle, neither loose nor constricting, and though she did not wish to be touching him, the feel of Boswell's lips on her right hand had her skin crawling; the major's touch not so unbearable.

Nothing was said as they climbed the stairs and Jane tried not to think about what was said at dinner. She wished to be as cordial as possible and she knew if she thought about his condescension, the belittling way in which he regarded her belief in her right to be governed by those from her own country, and it  _was_ a country, then she would be as curt and cool as she had been when he pointed out his complete disinterest in her as a woman of marrying age. Luckily, they went all the way to her bedroom without speaking a single word to the other.

"Here you are, Miss Whitmore," he said as they stopped. He gently released her hand, neither lingering too long, nor letting her hand drop to her side. Instead, he gently lowered it until it was clear she had control of her arm. "I wish you a good night."

"And you as well, sir," she smiled. He hesitated, looked down the hall, did not move, and then spoke.

"Without seeming forward… I would advise caution in attaching yourself to a man such as Captain Boswell."

She blinked at the abruptness of it.

"I believe I have surmised the type of man Captain Boswell is, sir, and will act accordingly," she replied. He hesitated, looking at her a moment, down to the ground, then back at her, and then nodded.

"I've no doubt your judgment is correct and reasoning sound," he answered, stiffly. He had a way of making a compliment sound like an insult. It sounded hollow, sarcastic, like he thought she was a silly girl that would let herself be despoiled by a charming officer whose mind was focused on a single, dishonorable goal. She resented the snide comment, fought the pinching of her lips, and curved them upward instead.

"Your opinion is of the highest value to me," she answered.

"Hmm," was the sound that left him, the disbelieving sound that landed somewhere between a cynical grunt and an indifferent murmur.

"Good night, Miss Whitmore," he murmured and turned to walk back toward his door. She touched the handle to her door, opened it, and then looked back toward the major. By the time she did, he was already inside the room with the door closed behind him.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three:

She sat in the corner of her room staring out at the garden. Her sketchbook lay open in her lap, untouched. The day was magnificent. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, it was warm with a cool and steady breeze, and the birds chirped happily. She had her window open, but that was the closest she was willing to get to stepping out into the glorious day.

Four days had passed since she spoke to Alex. She knew enough about the militia t know that Alex would not be back with explicit instructions for her anytime soon. Right now the most intelligent thing she could do was make sure when he did return, she would be of some use to the cause. She kept her door open during the day, sitting in her chair with either a book or her sketchpad. She did almost nothing most of the day but make a mental note of the movements outside the door. The Major's staff officers were often gone from the house. It was truly a place for them to sleep and eat in comfort. The Major was the only one that remained from dusk till dawn. In the passed four days she realized she had been right in her assessment to Alex. A person could set their watch by the Major's movements.

He rose at seven every morning. At least, that was when he left his bedroom for a quick walk around the house. He was already dressed and shaved for the day. No servant entered his room to make the bed or take his laundry.

He returned at seven thirty. Then the servants brought in tea and a quarter loaf of bread. The door was shut. He left again at ten o'clock. He took tea and a light breakfast of cold meats from the previous night's dinner and was back in his bedroom by ten thirty.

He left again at eleven for his daily ride and returned five minutes after noon. There he remained until five-thirty. She checked the clock every time she heard his door open and every time she heard his boots return down the hall. He was often disturbed by messengers but it never affected the times he was out of the house.

Now she only needed to be absolutely certain this schedule would not change. She knew better than to put anything in writing and so she made mental notes daily.

She was interrupted from her musings by Rebecca in the doorway. She told her she was expected in her father's study in ten minutes. Jane thanked her and got to her feet. She went directly to her father's study. Her father was pleased to see her. He was sitting on a settee reading. He jumped up and waddled over to her. He kissed her cheek and held her hand. He patted the back of her hand and brought her over to the couches.

"Such a beautiful day isn't it? I am going for a walk by the duck pond some time later. Would you join me?"

"I'm not sure, papa. I'm rather tired."

"Of course, of course. Well, I will let you go back upstairs shortly. First, I have something I would like to discuss with you."

"Is mama unwell?"

"Oh no! She is very well. Upstairs resting by an open window."

They settled down on the couches. A small group of redcoats marched by the study window. They would often patrol between the nearest town and some of the larger estates. It left her parents feeling secure and protected from the marauding packs of rebel criminals roving the country side. Jane did not like it at all.

"You are one and twenty now, sweet Jane."

"I am," she answered. She new exactly where this conversation was leading.

"It is quite time you married," he added. She sighed and leaned back against the arm of the couch.

"Father, it is not my goal to be obstinate."

"I am not angry at you, darling. I only wish to discuss a certain opportunity the good lord as laid at our feet."

"Opportunity?" she repeated numbly.

"I received this letter from one of my friends in New York. He knows a few men in London still. Major Reynolds is the  _only_ son of Simon and Margaret Reynolds. The Reynolds are not nobility. They have no title to speak of but they are a family of incredible wealth. A man of only eight and twenty! A Major. An adjutant general with his own staff. And set to inherit a massive fortune. Estates all across the West Indies!"

Every muscle in her body flexed.

"Father the only problem is he does not like me. And I do not like him," she pointed out.

"Jane." His voice was grave. He took her hand in his and held it closely. "I would never force you into marriage. I never will. But I fear you are too focused on the idea of love. Love comes after many years of hard work. Your mother and I knew each other only a month before we wed. And you have hardly spoken to the man. I could find you no better match than him."

"He has not demonstrated a single shred of interest in me –"

"Jane," he cut her off. She calmed herself and looked out the window. The thought of spending the rest of her life trapped with Major John Reynolds revolted her. A shiver of terror threatened to make its way up her spine at the mere possibility. "I am not telling you that you need marry him today. I am simply making the request you attempt to know him better. Will you do that for me, my love?"

She pinched her lips together and then nodded. He smiled at her and she could not help but chuckle.

"I promise, papa," she relented. "He will rebuff me, but if you wish to have your only child humiliated then so be it."

"Oh, Jane, you are a beautiful young girl with a sharp mind, a witty tongue and a large dowry. You must have more confidence in yourself. Go on now. Rest. I do not want you to catch a spring cold. It has been a disruptive few weeks."

She kissed his cheek and went to the door. He stopped her as she put her hand on the handle.

"Jane." He smiled sadly. "You do not know your own worth."

She forced a smile. It was what he had told her since she was a little girl and came home crying with ink in her hair or mud on her face. Her father might very well believe it but he had not seen the look in Reynolds' eyes when Ainsworth made his suggestive comments.

She moved up the stairs slowly, a hand on the railing, the other holding up her skirt. She mulled over her father's words thoughtfully. She was on her way to see her mother when she passed the Major. He was on the stairs with his hat in his hands.

"Major?" she asked. She did not want to talk to him to honor her father's wishes but instead to request that she be allowed to fetch something from her room. She hoped that the more she requested to enter his room the less suspicious he might be if he walked in on her inside one day. Her personability was such that she did not believe that he would think twice that she simply was unwilling to wait for an escort into her room.

"Miss Whitmore," he responded. He did not break stride. He walked passed her without another word. She paused and turned to watch him walk down the stairs, lips slightly parted. No matter one's indifference, such impoliteness shocked her. Her cheeks flushed and she pinched her lips together.

She marched onto her mother's bedroom angrily. She opened the door without a knock. Her mother was out of bed and resting in a chair by the window. She looked small and exhausted. A damp rag was resting over her eyes but she seemed to know it was Jane that had entered the room.

"Is that my Jane?" she asked quietly.

"It's me, mama," Jane answered and sat in the chair her father usually occupied. Her mother held out her hand blindly and Jane took the fragile fingers in her own grip. She smiled over at the fresh vase of lilacs on her mother's side table. Her mother loved lilacs. Her father had not gone out to get her freshly cut spring flowers in years. It touched Jane to see how in love her parents still were.

Her mother removed the cold cloth. Her eyes were swollen and red. Her skin was pale. She looked twice her age. She asked softly, as though she were whispering, "how is my Jane?"

"I'm well, mama. How're you feeling?"

"Just tired," she smiled. "I've a small ache in my head. Better now that you've come to see me."

Jane had no idea how she could possible be so tired when all she did was sleep. Jane bit her bottom lip gently.

"Tell me about the spring. Have you been riding often?" her mother asked.

Jane spoke with her mother a little over an hour before she grew too tired. Jane kissed her clammy forehead and rose. She paused as she found a table by the door covered in flowers.

"We do not grow these flowers," she observed. Her mother, with a tremendous amount of effort, turned her head and examined the table. A soft smile came to her lips. She pointed weakly.

"You see that purple flower?" she asked. Jane nodded. "They call it Larkspur," her mother smiled, sitting up in the chair. "He sent for it from Mary-Land."

"I had no idea Papa knew so much about flowers," Jane laughed.

"Oh, not your father," her mother smiled. "Major Reynolds. A great fondness for flowers he has. He mentioned the bloom when he came to greet me. We spoke some time about flowers. He told me of this, his favorite flower in the colonies. I told him how much I would like to see… he surprised me with it just yesterday."

"That was… thoughtful," Jane had to admit.

"A very thoughtful young man," her mother agreed. A nurse-maid put a cloth back over her eyes. She was glaring at Jane, waiting for her to leave so the mistress of the house could sleep. Her mother murmured again, "very thoughtful."

"Rest well, mama," she said and left the room.

Very thoughtful. He was so thoughtful that he would walk past a woman that sought his counsel without so much as a word he was needed elsewhere. He was so thoughtful he made no attempt to hide his disinterest in her. At the very least, he might have been less obvious. She was after all a woman whose father had immense wealth. That he would be so disinterested could only point to a complete lack of attraction. Her father simply refused to see the obvious.

She settled back down in her new bedroom and opened her sketchbook. She made no additions to it as she waited for dinner. Her cheeks were flushed and she tried to tamp down her anger and clear her head. She did not like Major Reynolds any more than he liked her, but his complete disinterest wounded her. It was the injustice of it all. He managed to make her feel like an ugly little girl again. She had grown confidence in the recent years. She often felt she looked rather handsome, but somehow, when in his presence, she was a gawky, lanky, awkward fourteen-year-old girl again.

She did not speak much through dinner. Her thoughts were preoccupied. Her father had somehow managed to maneuver things so that she found herself seated directly beside Major Reynolds as they ate. She had to admit it was actually rather impressive. Boswell was out in New Jersey. Ainsworth was not feeling well and had gone to bed early. Only Green, Darling and Reynolds himself attended dinner. Still, she found herself seated to the Major's right, watching without much care of being found out, as he carried out his peculiar eating practices.

The conversations was light. It primarily focused on the weather. Green and Darling spoke about their work this coming summer. It was actually rather interesting, but Jane found out pretty early on they were not going to share anything of any significant importance. The topic of the Alnor's spring ball came up toward the end of dinner. The Whitmore's, as the most prominent family within the nearest one hundred miles, used to hold the ball at the beginning of spring, but Margaret Whitmore was far too ill. She would not survive the stress. Green and Darling were very interested at the prospect of attending. Her father assured them they would receive an invitation. Reynold's appeared entirely indifferent.

When her father asked him if he would like an invitation he appeared annoyed he had to take a break from his eating routine to answer. He paused, the fork just in front of his lips.

"No," he answered simply and then put the fish between his lips.

"No, sir?" her father asked, surprised by the bluntness of his refusal.

"Yes. That is to say, yes, my answer is 'no."

"It would be no imposition to have one acquired…"

"It would be an imposition to have one forced upon me," he answered.

"Of course, of course, I would never," her father said, flustered. Jane wondered how thoughtful her mother would find him if she saw him being so rude to her husband. "I am sure you will receive one regardless. The countryside is abuzz with your presence. But you will not feel any pressure to attend from me."

"I am sure I will not," he replied and began cutting another piece of his fish.

"My daughter is quite the dancer," her father said to the table, but his eyes were on the Major. She blushed and looked down at her plate. It was clumsy and obvious. Major Reynolds paused his chewing and glanced between Jane and her father. He finished chewing, eyes on the water in front of him and her father added quickly, "I am sure she is quite looking forward to it."

"Very much," she replied with a happy smile.

"I would be honored if you would promise me a dance," Darling smiled.

"Consider it promised," she replied, pleased someone found her pleasant enough to flirt. She glanced over to the Major and found him still glaring at his water. His eyes were unfocused.

"Who holds this ball?" Captain Green asked. The conversation that followed was rather boring and Jane listened with a polite smile on her face. Major Reynolds sat back in his chair and listened with a neutral expression on his face. Finally, at only five fifty, dinner ended and Jane prepared to go to her room. Her father went to the sitting room with Darling and Green to drink and speak politics. Not conversation for a young lady. The Major excused himself to work on business.

He offered Jane his hand without a word. She accepted it and met her father's happy face with a tight smile.

"You had a pleasant day, I hope?" she asked as they mounted the first step.

"It was busy," he answered.

"I saw the flowers you gave my mother. They are beautiful."

"Your mother and I share an interest. I was only too happy to bring them to her."

"I was wondering, as you are not so busy anymore, may I prevail upon you a moment?"

He paused a few moments and she honestly thought he was going to ignore her. Instead, he asked her, "were you trying to get my attention this afternoon?"

"I was," she answered. He cleared hi throat.

"Forgive me, please. I had no idea you had been looking to speak with me. I promise you, I would have stopped to listen."

"You are an important and busy man, Major Reynolds. The needs of a silly young lady should not worry you."

"But they do," he answered. "How many I assist you?"

They were at the top of the stairs now.

"Would I be allowed to slip into my bedroom very briefly? I have an item I need to retrieve."

"If you do not believe it is inappropriate, you may go in now whilst I am present."

"You are too kind," she answered. He opened the door for her and opened it with an extended arm. He remained in the doorway as she went to her old desk, still pushed up against the window. She retrieved some spare paper and some ink. She wished him a good night, thanked him, and walked toward he room.

"If I could prevail upon you a moment, Miss Whitmore?" he asked. She paused and turned. She was a bit nervous as she waited.

"Certainly Major, I'll do all I can," she answered.

"If you would kindly ease referring to this as  _your_ room. I would greatly appreciate it."

Her smile faltered.

"The is mine, sir," she answered. He smiled sourly. He looked strange smiling. She did not like it.

"What I mean is this is the only room I have. I occupy it. I sleep in it. I work in it. Does it not seem unjust? You may have  _two,_ whilst I have none? Of course, once I quit the residence, it's yours once more. Until then, please provide me this one comfort."

"Of course, Major, my only desire is that you're comfortable in your stay."

"You are a poor liar," he answered rather bluntly. "Your resentment is misplaced and childish. I am quite far from home. A small measure of sympathy would add to my comfort quite significantly."

"Forgive me, Major," she got out. Her skin was hot and blotchy. She swallowed thickly. Angry tears pricked at her eyes.

"Miss Whitmore," he said and took a step toward her. She took an automatic step back. He ceased his approach.

"Good night, Major. Sleep well," she turned and escaped into her bedroom. He was so thoughtful. He did not even wish her a good night in return.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four:

Her skills in espionage were lacking. She had been more than confident when she awoke that morning and despite a rather horrific day the day before, nothing chipped away at her confidence.

Yesterday, she had been so preoccupied with the letter she had received from Alex that she almost suffered a rather nasty fall. Only Constantine's steady gait and her own rather quick reflexes saved her from a all but certain nasty blow to the head.

She arrived back at the stables a bit shaken. It didn't shake her confidence in her task. Even when Jonathan refused to assist her, Jane was certain she would meet Alex that coming Sunday with information that would prove to the militia she could be of value to them.

_Sunday. Our spot. I have orders._

She only asked Jonathan to distract the Major when he went on his ride the next morning. All he had to do was make sure he arrived home a bit later than usual. She did not even think she would really need the extra time, but she wished to be as cautious as possible.

"Just ask him to discuss his horse's shoe," Jane pleaded with him from the safety of her horse stall.

"I will not," Jonathan hissed. "I end up with a noose around my neck, my mother and sister starve to death. Now go. Before you get us both killed."

She called him a coward and had all but stomped back to the main house. She regretted her words almost immediately but she would not apologize. She was only sorry for saying them. She knew it was true.

On her way back to the house she sank deeply into a mess of mud she had not seen. Her boots sank in deeply and the bottom of her pretty white petticoat turned brown. She tried to jump from the mud before the dress was ruined beyond repair. Her boot hit the ground a few feet from the left and her feet came out from under her. She hit the ground with a violent thud. She examined her dress with a cry of frustration. Now it was ruined.

Pain shot up her arm and back but there was no real harm done. She returned to the house with a muddy dress, a flushed face, and her body absolutely dripping with wet. The day grew warmer than she had anticipated it would and she had not dressed appropriately. Still, her confidence was not shaken. Tomorrow would be the day. It was no risk. It was a certainty. Right now all she wanted was a cool bath and a glass of sherry.

She stopped walking half way up the drive when she saw the front door open. Major Reynolds stepped through the front door. She deflated slightly. His coat was brilliant in the bright spring sun. His pants were as white as could be. His hair was neatly powdered, his boots were polished. He was the perfect image of the handsome British officer.

She resumed her walk. He and two soldiers she didn't know were coming in her direction. Major Reynold's had such long strides, he was on top of her in a moment. She put a smile on her face but he froze when he saw her.

"Miss Whitmore?" he asked. She offered a small greeting and hoped to pass him as quickly as possible. She did not want to prolong this humiliation.

"Miss Whitmore?" he asked again as she passed him. He called after her, "Did you suffer a fall?"

She said nothing. She kept walking. It was beyond humiliating.

"Miss Whitmore?" he called again. She feared he might follow her if she did not speak. She wished he would just do the gentlemanly thing and leave her in peace.

"I am quite well, sir!" she called. Her voice cracked. Her eyes filled up with tears when she was angry. It was an attribute she had always hated about herself. People thought she was hysterical when she was simply angry. He did not pursue her.

She walked upstairs and shouted for water. She was not usually so short with servants. She made a mental note to apologize once she had calmed down. She considered trying to duck into his room very quickly as she marched toward her room, tacking in mud behind her, but it was only fleeting. She would literally leave a trail of evidence if she attempted anything now and it would be far too foolish. She had no idea where he was going or when he might come back. Better to go on a normal day where his schedule would continue uninterrupted.

The bath was heavenly. She cooled down, calmed down, and scrubbed the terrible morning away. Unfortunately, her humiliation was not yet over. She left her bedroom and made the rounds to speak t the servants. She apologized for her behavior. Her parents had raised her to treat the lower classes with nothing but respect. She was genuinely embarrassed at her behavior. The servants, who had always been fond of her, were adamant she had nothing to apologize for. All the same, she took it upon herself to order the cook to make the servants a special dessert for dinner. The servants buzzed with excitement the rest of the day.

Once done making amends, she settled down in the drawing room. She plopped down with a book and looked up at the picture of Georgie II. He was glaring down at her with cold, judgmental eyes. She glanced over at the large bust of George III in the corner. It had been a magnificent Christmas gift the year of his coronation. Her father adored the bust. It received a toast at least twice a week.

"What?" she snapped at it as it stared at her.

"Miss Whitmore?"

She jumped a mile. Her eyes widened a bit and she shook her head. She could not help but laugh. For a fraction of a half-second she had actually thought he talked back. She jerked her head to the side to find Major Reynolds standing in the doorway.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to interrupt your conversation with His Majesty," he said. He offered her a very tight smile. Her lips parted when she realized he had been making an attempt at humor. When she did not laugh he cleared his throat.

"May I?" he asked and motioned to a chair.

"Please," she said. "Forgive me I… I was surprised. Please join me."

"I will only keep you a moment," he vowed. "I wanted to inquire about your health."

She pinched her lips together and her face flushed.

"I am quite well, sir," she said.

"I am pleased to hear that but allow me to press the issue. If any of my soldiers were responsible, I'll have them flogged until the skin is removed from their back."

She was surprised by the violence in his words. His voice held a slight edge to it. He added, "I would hold myself personally responsible."

"I promise you, Major, I slipped in the mud. Nothing so fantastic as you imagine. In fact, the soldiers I have encountered have been nothing but kind and courteous."

"I am pleased to hear it. Please, if you experience anything that makes your feel uncomfortable or unsafe, come to me with those concerns as soon as possible."

"I will. Thank you."

He nodded thoughtfully and stared over at the bust of George the Third. Once he had gathered his thoughts he looked back at her.

"Second. Tomorrow, you will go for your normal morning ride?" he asked.

"I will," she answered. "Unless it rains."

"Whilst you're gone, I've arranged for two soldiers to bring the remainder of your items into your new room. I've just now spoken to your maid, Miss Langley, and she will oversee the movement, to see your things are not mistreated."

"Oh," she answered. Her mind raced a bit. Just a single more day and she'd have her excuse should she be caught. She feared the loss of it.

"I thought it might be convenient to us both. So, you need not wait for me to find an escort for you, so you might cease your interruptions of my work."

"Accept my apology," she said in surprise. "I had no idea I was such a nuisance."

"Oh no," he said. "No." he was frowning deeply. "That was not my intended meaning."

He scratched the side of his face. He laughed somewhat uncomfortably. His gaze was on the floor. He was thinking.

"Tomorrow," he said abruptly. "ten o'clock you go for your ride?"

"Yes sir," she answered. He stood and bid her a farewell. He was almost in the hallway when he stopped in the doorway. He turned toward her briefly, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then walked down the hall. She frowned after him. The brief encounter left her terribly confused.

* * *

_The Next Morning:_

John Reynolds gently massaged his temples as he examined the report in front of him.

_Supplies lost: 1000 muskets. 1000 attachable bayonets, 500 jags, 200 ball molds, 50 barrels of powder, 25 barrels of primer, 20 crates flint, 10 crates wadding…_

It was a staggering amount of money, a staggering number of weapons now in rebel hands. Weapons purchased by the tax payers of Great Britain would now be used to murder the soldiers sworn to defend it. His stomach turned as he continued to read.

_Guns, powder and munitions are of the highest priority and care must be afforded to insure they arrive safely at their destination. No loss is an acceptable loss. The New England Colonies will now be under the direct supervision of Adjutant General, Major John S. Reynolds. Major John Bainsby relieved._

It came with a hefty raise in pay but he did not think the stress was worth the money. He had been responsible for viewing Major Bainsby's plans, but barring some sort of clear error, he let Bainsby operate as he pleased. Now he had three more colonies to manage directly. His head already ached. He glanced at the clock. He would not be leaving his desk today.

He reached for his log book and flipped through it slowly. He checked the route that had been hit. He ticked a box. Most of his morning was spent going through his books. The last of Miss Whitmore's things were brought out of his room around ten. No one dare spoke while in the room. He was drawing on a map, sketching lines with a ruler.

It wasn't finding a safe route and it wasn't finding a fast route that was so difficult. It was finding a safe route that was cheap and efficient. He left briefly just before eleven to see Alexander. He did not want the stable hand to have to saddle him for nothing. He got down to the stables and the boy's eyes widened.

"You're early, Major," he greeted. "I'll just be a moment."

"No need," he said with a raised hand. "I cannot ride today. I only wish to see him."

He collected some apples and went to his horse.

"Sorry boy," he said softly. The horse snorted and he gave him an apple. The horse nibbled gently at his hand. He pressed his nose into John's face. "Tomorrow. I promise."

He paused outside the stables and squinted up at the sun. Carefully he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed at his forehead. It was already oppressively hot. He could hardly imagine what hell June would bring.

"If you could walk him today? Make sure he gets his exercise?" John asked the stable hand. He nodded.

"Will do, Major, Sir."

John nodded and dabbed his upper lip. He walked a few paces and then stopped.

"Did Miss Whitmore ride today?" he asked.

"No, sir," he answered. The stable hand was a large man, well muscled, about twenty or so years old. He was always polite, but there was always a hardness in his gaze that John did not like. John said nothing in return and walked back to his office. He slid two fingers beneath his wig and scratched his hairline. Unable to find relief he peeled it off of his head. He slicked his hair back and then scratched his head. He finally put the wig back on his head and sat back down at his desk. He was not back to work long before his door opened quickly, and the pretty Miss Whitmore slipped inside.

* * *

In her effort to be cautious, she made a terrible mistake. He had left earlier than usual, but it had not fazed her. Green was gone for the day, Ainsworth was gone for the day, Darling was gone for the day, and Boswell was still in New Jersey. Everything seemed to be falling perfectly into place. She waited a little less than a half hour to make sure he did not return.

When she was certain he was gone, she checked the clock, noted the time, and slipped into the hall. After the chaos of the morning, the house was perfectly quiet. There was not a person in sight. She moved fluidly and silently. Her blood was on fire with excitement.

She opened the door and slipped inside without pausing. She shut the door softly behind her and turned. She'd be in and out in under five minutes. Her only fear was that she would not know what she was looking at it.

She turned her gaze toward the desk and all the oxygen in her lungs came rushing out of her in a soft exhale. She saw red first. A large red mass behind the desk where Major Reynolds was not supposed to be. Her eyes came into focus slowly. She swallowed the extra saliva forming in her mouth. He was looking at her, pen frozen in his left hand. His face was blank.

"Miss Whitmore," he greeted. Her heartbeat was thudding in her ears so loudly she could hardly hear herself.

"Major Reynolds?" she answered. Her throat hurt.

"You were not expecting me," he said simply. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She pressed her lip together and tried to think of something to say.

"I was not," was all she could think of to say. He stared at her. He blinked once and looked at the clock on the wall. He lowered his pen to the desk slowly. He folded his hands in front of him calmly.

"What was it you hoped to accomplish?" he asked.

She looked over his shoulder. It was easier than looking at him. She tried to think of something, anything, they might have forgot to bring over. A thought occurred to her rather suddenly and the laugh that left her, though uncomfortable and bitter, was quite genuine.

"It is embarrassing, sir," she answered. She hoped he might let her leave without actually having to voice it. He simply stare and waited. His lips curved upward into a sour smile.

"Another secret sketchbook?" he asked her. Her face flushed. She must have been glowing.

"I have all of my items. Your soldiers were dutiful."

His eyebrows and chin lifted upward.

"Then why are you here?" he asked her.

"Your uniform," she said breathlessly. He was at a loss for that. His eyes darted to the side a moment. She watched him trying to process.

"My uniform?" he asked. She touched the back of her neck. Her skin was hot and wet.

"I wanted to look at it. The ones in the wardrobe…"

"I am… perplexed," he said simply. She felt a bit better.

"Please, sir, forgive me. I'm humiliated," she said. She opened the door and tried to make her escape.

"Stop," he ordered. She turned slowly. "Explain."

"I just… I just wanted to look at it," she said. She took her bottom lip between her teeth. It drew his gaze. "They're so handsome and I… I find yours to be particularly so…"

There was a long pause. She looked at the clock on the wall. It felt like an eternity had passed. It had been less than a minute.

"So you…" he trailed off and shook his head. She waited. "You see me every day."

"Major," she said and laughed nervously. She bit her lip again. It drew his gaze again. If he were anyone but the rude, cold, abrasive Major… but there was something about his gaze… "I could not stare so openly…"

She was pressed against the door. Her hand was still wrapped around the handle. Her knuckles were white. He stood slowly. He leaned forward on the desk, holding himself up by his middle and pointer fingers.

"You may… examine it now," he offered. His face softened. It was ever so miniscule, but she was so focused on his face, she was able to see the slight change in his expression.

"You are very busy," she protested weakly. She had released the door and stepped toward him shyly.

"I could use a distraction," he answered. "It is more impressive on than off."

She kept her eyes on his chest rather than his intimidating gaze.

"I've always preferred the blue," she said. His eyes were frightfully intense. She would not have been able to hold his gaze even if she tried. "The yellow I am fond of… the green as well. The blue is so handsome."

"I am pleased you like it," he said. "On my travel down from Quebec, I found it made me the target for harassment."

"Ignorant men," she replied. She cast a timid glance his way. His adam's apple bobbed rapidly. She was so close she could see the faintest scar on his neck. A nick shaving. "I am sure you have many more female admirers' than not."

"Until they actually speak with me, I'm sure." She glanced up and held his gaze only a moment. She looked back down. She nibbled on her lip again. "But I have noticed some lingering gazes occasionally," he continued. "I've never once noted yours."

She looked up sharply. She was unsure if this was an accusation or simply and observation. She looked back down.

"May I?" she asked. She raised her hand to a button on his coat. He nodded. She touched the blue fabric and examined a button.

"Do you watch me so often that you can say with such certainly that I never gaze a bit too long at you?" Once she had finished speaking, she looked up at to meet his gaze again.

"Perhaps I look more than a man without interest would," he said rather boldly. She stared at him a few minutes.

"Not all provincial girls lack etiquette."

"I see," he said. Her heart was pounding.

"You must get very warm."

"Uncomfortably so sometimes," he answered. There was something in his voice. It drew her gaze upward. She looked back down and touched a button on his waistcoat. It was just above the sash around his middle.

She looked up at him. He starred back down at her. She wasn't sure what she saw in his eyes but she refused to look away until she was quite sure. His eyes lowered to focus on her mouth. She suddenly know the look in his eyes.

_Desire._

"Major?" she said softly. He looked back up to meet her gaze. "I should go."

She stepped away from him. She did not release his waistcoat until her arm was fully extended.

"Yes, you should," he agreed. She turned and walked slowly toward the door. He was retaking his seat. Neither said anything. She opened the door slowly let it creak open.

"Miss Whitmore?" he stopped her. She was ready to be reprimanded one last time. Instead he told her, "I look forward to seeing you at dinner tonight."

She flashed a shy grin and quickly darted from the room

* * *

Dinner was awkward but that was to be expected. The Major himself seemed wholly unfazed and offered very little to the conversation without being coaxed. Sitting inside the dining room on a day as hot as this would have been uncomfortable enough, as her father never put enough candles on the table to adequately light. The eastern facing room had a single window. In place of the candles, which he thought prevented them from putting enough food on the table at once, he lit the fire behind his chair. To light the room it had to be fairly large and on a day like this the heat was oppressive.

On top of the terrible heat, she had the presence of Major Reynolds to concern herself with. Her memory of what had occurred in that room could not be trusted. It was a blur. She remembered thinking she saw desire in his gaze, but now she was not so sure. It could have been anything. Annoyance, anger, suspicion. She knew it was intense but his indifference as they sat through dinner had her doubting her earlier reccolection.

True to his word he did not inform her father of what had transpired. He certainly did not appear any more inclined to speak with her. There were no hard glances or suspicious stares. He simply sat in his seat, slowly cut, slowly ate, four bites, sip of cooled boiled water, and then started over. He contributed to the conversation only when spoken to directly and though he might have been more silent than normal, seemed the same major she had eaten with the night before.

She had been certain that consequences would follow what had occurred in the bedroom. She was certain there would be a change in his attitude. Taking the last sip of her wine now, she was surprised that he had not given her any sort of recognition. In fact, even though she had arrived late to dinner, five thirty-three, he had not even glanced up to look at her. Instead, as her father scolded her for being late, he asked the servant if his water had been boiled and examined it intently.

"Yes Major, sir," the servant assured him. "Just as you said."

She watched the Major take a sip, trying to gage his mood, but his eyes never found her. He put the glass down and as the servant turned to move on said, "It is still warm."

The servant turned back to make an attempt to remedy the problem but the Major only waved his hand dismissively. She settled down into her chair and tried to ask as normal and pleasant as possible. If anything was going to come from what she had done, it would not come at dinner.

Still, as much as she tried, her anxiety remained elevated and she longed for dinner to end so the Major would retire and she might be able to resume her earlier reflection. She needed time to think things through. She couldn't do that with the man seated five feet away from her.

"Before you retire might I ask if you still need the name of my contact in the city?" her father asked and the Major slowly pushed in his own chair, the servant tasked to do so looking on in annoyance.

"I am in need of it, yes. I will join you in the sitting room briefly," he said. His eyes found Jane's for the first time that night. She looked away immediately. She glanced back up at him when Darling offered her his arm. She only half listened to what Darling had to say and instead focused on the Major's voice as he spoke to her father behind her.

"The time is, of course, no issue. The blockade will inconvenience everyone, but private legitimate merchants are less likely to be raided by either side than a British transport," he said and she could see her father nodding. The rebels don't want to alienate the populous any less than we do."

"Yes, yes, very wise. Just this past week I learned I will not be receiving a shipment due to these pirates. This imagined congress has sanctioned these cutthroats to attack good, hardworking subjects," her father said with disgust. "The money…."

"Shipment?" the Major asked. "Is your money not in farming?"

"Mostly, yes, but I have a small shipping operation," he said. "Is your family in farming?"

She fought her embarrassment. He might as well have asked him plainly,  _and what is your money in?_

"Slavery…." the Major answered bluntly. "My father has plantations in the Indies."

"Ah," her father said, voice taut.

"It is not something I condone."

 _No_ , she thought,  _but you will take the money when your father dies and you won't sell the plantations._

"A perfectly… legal means of earning a living."

Jane still could not understand how her father could make the argument of legality versus morality when it came to slavery and not transfer that logic to their fight with the British.

"And the plantations? They are where in the Indies?"

"Jamaica and Barbados," he answered.

 _Sugarcane_  .

She didn't need to hear him say it. She just knew it. She swallowed down her disgust and raised her eyebrows as Darling continued his story.

"And then I went flying from my horse and landed in the little river," Darling chuckled. "I tell you my men still remind me of it today."

"You are lucky you did not break your back… your neck," she laughed.

"The water where I landed was deep," he said and demonstrated with his free hand. "It had a little shoreline and then dipped down like so. I was very lucky."

"And this was last season?"

"No, no, this was when I was in Ireland. Rooting out rebellious papists that had been riling up the populous."

"Oh," she said simply and immediately moved over to the window as they entered the sitting room. She lifted the window and sat down, relishing in the light breeze that came through the window. Darling sat in the chair close to her and gently pulled at his cravat but he did not go so far as to loosen it.

She looked toward the Major who took his seat closest to her father. A drop of sweat dripped from his temple and down his cheek. He reached into his inner pocket and retrieved a small white handkerchief. He gently dabbed his forehead. He did it gracefully and tucked the cloth back inside his coat. It was a stark contrast to the sigh of Darling and Green yanking at their black cravats and wiping their brows with their shit cuffs.

She stood and walked to the window by the Major, opening it as quietly as she could, letting the breeze in through the second window. He turned his head as she did, but when she looked down at him he was looking out the window and not at her.

"Thank you, Miss Whitmore," he said as she sat down. He had the cloth out again and was dabbing the back of his neck.

"Have you any plans for tomorrow, Miss Whitmore?" Darling asked her.

"I am riding to the Alnor's tomorrow morning to call on Miss Mary Alnor. She is my dearest friend. I will stay until Sunday," she answered. Major Reynolds looked at her then. She had asked her father if she could go to Mary Alnor's earlier in the afternoon. It was the safest way she could meet with Alex.

"We shall be deprived of your presence the rest of the week?" Darling asked, eyes sad, and she smiled. He was a flirt and she doubted his sincerity, but he did not have the same slimness Boswell had possessed. Darling did not seem the sort to go after a virgin conquest, merely a young man who enjoyed conversation with young women.

"Unfortunately," she answered and chanced a glance at Reynolds. He was looking down at his finger nails, face blank, and picked at a cuticle.

"What shall I do without your company for an entire week?" Darling asked and she heard Green and Ainsworth speaking with her father.

"I believe most certainly you will manage," she answered.

"You must not forget you've promised me a dance for the ball," He said severely.

"I promise you I will not."

"But how else will I be able to say I danced with the most beautiful woman in New York?" he asked, voice dripping with charm, but lacking sincerity. Still she found no malice, merely a desire for a little harmless fun. It was still not the type of conversation she liked to take part in.

"You are too kind sir."

"I am honest," he continued.

"I promise you shall have your dance," she assured him. Her voice had grown curt.

"Alas, I find it doubtful. You will be the star of the dance, every man begging for your hand and I shall be all but forgotten."

She tried to hide her discomfort with a smile. Mary Alnor, Mary Templeton, Jane Caffey, Sara Hewitt, those were the girls that had lines of men awaiting the next dance. She had interested suitors, but she was never the one to draw the crowed.

"Not me, sir," she breathed and reached over to retrieve a small book of poems to her left.

"I am sure you have a line of suitors stretching from here to Florida," he smiled. She heard Green and Ainsworth chuckle. She now had the distinct feeling she was being mocked. She opened the book, focusing on it intently.

"Not as long as you say," she replied.

"Yes but –"

"Who are you reading?" the Major asked. Darling fell silent and differed to the Major. She looked up, cheeks pink, and it took her a moment to register the question. She looked down at the book, shaking her head, and searched for her words.

"Oh… Thomas Grey, sir." She managed to recover her wits and instead focused on trying to figure him out. He was as impassive as ever.

"Ah," he said, looking back down to his palms, and then murmuring, "'Lo where the rosy-bosomed Hours, Fair Venus's train, appear. Disclose the long-expecting flowers, and Wake the purple year.'"

He looked up with a half-smile and then looked back to his hand. He  _almost_ appeared shy.

"You enjoy poetry sir?" Her voice betrayed her surprise.

"Yes," he said simply and then spoke no more. She waited as long as she could for the Major to go upstairs so she might avoid him, but after an hour of having to pretend to enjoy the terribly boring conversation about different spring crops, she rose and announced she would retire for the night. Her heart elevated when the Major got to his feet, smoothing a hand over the sash wrapped around his middle.

"I will as well," he said after she made her announcement. "I've much work to do tomorrow and would best get a good night sleep."

She looked to her father as the Major held out a hand but instead of hesitation in regards to seeing him once again escort her upstairs alone, she saw a pleased twinkle in his eyes. She accepted the Major's hand and leaned down to kiss her father's cheek.

Her heart fluttered in her chest as they walked up the stairs. Her hand was clammy as it rested in his. She prayed he did not notice. He might act as if nothing had changed between them, but she knew her actions towards him now would be heavily scrutinized.

"He was not mocking you," he said as they reached the second landing and she tensed. "He lacks subtly and his manners are without grace, but he was not speaking false."

"I'm sorry?"

"Forgive me," he answered and they fell silent. They got to the third floor and walked down the hall. She tried to reconcile the look of disgust in his eyes the day Ainsworth had hinted at a possible match between them and the look she had seen in his eyes earlier this afternoon. She felt a bubble up of emotion. She all but ripped her hand from his as they arrived at her door.

"And how might you know what Lieutenant Darling was thinking?" she asked sharply. He only stared at her. "I know not how a man who demonstrates nothing but disdain for all those around him could think to divine the mind of another."

"Disdain?" he repeated back.

"Yes," she answered. "You have shown me nothing but disdain since you arrived."

"Was it leaving the horse stall to you? The compliments to your drawing? Returning all your belongings?"

"You are not the injured party here, sir," she informed him.

"If I have done something to cause offense, I certainly apologize," he said.

"You are forgiven, Major. Good night to you," she said. She blinked rapidly and slipped into her bedroom. When she clicked her bedroom door shut, Major Reynolds was still standing in the doorway staring at her with a look of utter confusion.


	5. Chapter FIve

Five:

Jane was excited to see Mary again. She had not seen her dearest friend since Christmas. It would be good for her to get out of the house to collect her thoughts. The look in Major Reynold's eyes the day before had rocked her and had planted the seed of a very terrible idea in her head. She was anxious to speak to Alex about it. He had returned so quickly she hoped he would understand that she was unable to get any intelligence. She also hoped he could give her some sort of guidance.

She hurried down the steps in her riding habit. She slowed when she rounded the corner and found Major Reynolds at the doorway. He was speaking to another soldier. He had a smile on his face that was neither reserved nor sour. It took her back a moment. His eyes found hers and he bid the soldier farewell with a warm shake of the hand.

Reynolds waited for her to come down stairs. His smile morphed into a pained and forced contortion.

"Miss Whitmore," he greeted her.

"Major Reynolds."

"A beautiful day for riding," he noted. "You picked a fine day to quit the house."

"I am very glad to hear it."

"I spoke with your father this morning," he continued. She stopped before him. Her face hardened and her eyes darted upward sharply. He saw the change in her and eased her fear. "Oh, no. No, not about that." she relaxed a little bit. "I inquired as to the Alnor Estate's location. It is so close to the main army camp, I suggested you might feel more secure with an escort."

He paused and slipped his fingers up beneath the wig on his head.

"I offer myself as escort, if it'll please you," he offered. She considered a moment. Her initial reaction was annoyance he saddled her with an escort. Her next reaction was relief. She had not even considered how close the Alnor's were to the main army camp.

"It will take most of the morning to reach the house," she told him. "You will not return until well past three."

"I am in need of a long ride. Colonel Chamberlain has ordered scouting parties out before he moves the main body which means I have a little less than a fortnight… well, I'll not bore you with the details. Suffice it to say if I stare at a map anymore today I might pluck my eyes out with my tea spoon."

She laughed at the visual and he blushed.

"Forgive me," he muttered.

"No need for forgiveness, Major. If it will not be an inconvenience, I'd very much enjoy your presence."

"Wonderful. Shall we? You hoped to be gone before nine. Have you eaten?"

"I have not," she admitted.

"You will take breakfast with me," he asserted, though the look on his face demonstrated no malice. "I have mine readied already and took the liberty of ordering a second place be set."

"You do not eat breakfast until ten," she observed. He laughed uncomfortably as they walked toward the little room he always took his breakfast in.

"I am a creature of habit," he admitted. "But I am not so rigid that I cannot make small alterations from time to time. I'd be a rather poor soldier if that were the case."

A servant started toward her and then stepped back as Major Reynolds grabbed the chair she was to sit in. The servant watched in annoyance as he assisted her into the chair. Jane gave him a small smile and a shrug.

"I admit, I had no idea who you were when you first arrived at Whitmore House."

He looked to her as he took his seat. He was waiting to see if she would further her insult or add on a compliment.

"I spoke your name to a friend just the other day and I thought he might drop dead of excitement," she admitted. " _The_ Major John Reynolds? He was rather excited."

"Is he a military man? Most people do not care much for an administrative officer."

"No, though he is educated, he studied military strategy I'd hazard a guess."

"What is this admirer's name?"

His questions were insistent. She grew uncomfortable at his interest and realized she'd made a very silly mistake. She laughed at him and complimented as coyly as she could, "you are the most intense man I have ever encountered."

He cleared his throat and reached out to pour his tea. A servant came in with some cold meats and a bowl.

"I hear that often, actually," he said. "More often than not it is not a compliment. Do you like fruit?"

"Fruit?" she asked.

"I spent a few months in the West Indies. Truth be told, it was a rather horrific experience all the way around. I had a terrible fever and the heat does not agree with me, but the fruit… I still send for it, despite the expense. Luckily, I received my first batch of the season yesterday that did not spoil in transport."

"What is this?" she asked, jabbing in the air at a yellow piece of fruit in the little bowl.

"A pineapple. It is very good."

"May I?"

"Please."

She gently pierced it with the tines of the fork and brought it to her lips. Her eyes widened.

"My goodness!" she cried. He smiled at her. It changed his entire face. He actually had a very nice smile.

"Good, no?" he asked. He took a piece of fruit with his own fork.

"I'm afraid you've done me a great disservice. What am I to do when you're no longer here to provide such wonders?"

He chuckled but said nothing.

"And what is this?" she asked, holding up an orange cube with a fork.

"A type of melon. The green is better is my opinion."

She tried both.

"Oh no. The orange is much better."

"No accounting for taste, I suppose," he said dryly. She looked at him and cocked her head to the side.

"Was that a joke, Major Reynolds?" she asked.

"An attempt at one, perhaps," he replied. "I am a man very much lacking humor." He took a sip of tea. "I like numbers. Grids." He brought a hand down in a slow but severe line. "Order."

She watched him closely. He looked uncomfortable.  _Nervous._

"Ma'am?" a servant interrupted. She turned her head. "The carriage is ready to leave. Would you like to inspect the trunk?"

"Oh no, I trust George," she said. "Thank you, Jenny."

The young girl glanced at the Major before she left, a pretty, girlish blush on her face and a smile on her lips. Jane turned to see if the Major had seen it. He was rubbing at a tiny chip on his cup with severe concentration.

"Do you know all the servants by name?" he asked. He did not look up from the cup.

"Yes. There are only ten of them. George, the doorman and valet. Elizabeth, the cook. Mary, my mother's nurse, Bessie, my mother's maid, Rebecca, my maid, Rachel, house maid, Jenny, a house maid, Mr. Edwards, the butler, Jonathan, the stable hand."

"A small staff for a house this size."

"More come on every summer. My father does not believe in a full house staff during the quieter months."

"Wise. I've never understood extravagant spending," he observed. She laughed.

"Forgive me, sir, but we're currently eating exotic fruit from the West Indies in May, and just the other day you sent for a single flower from Mary-Land for aesthetic whimsy. Is that not extravagant spending?"

"No…" he said very simply, as though everything was made clear by his response.

"Major Reynolds, Sir," she said gently. "In polite conversation, one generally adds upon a yes or no response with an explanation."

"Extravagance is money spent on unnecessary items used to convey a sense of wealth and power to those in society. I do not spend my money on clothing or carriages or the like. I enjoy flowers, fruit and poetry, so I chose to spend my money on those things and I enjoy them privately. And the flower from Mary-Land was a birthday gift to your mother. A bit early perhaps but I thought just in ca –"

She stared at him. He broke off abruptly. His eyes were off to the side, a bit wide. His mouth was open. He suddenly brought up a hand and wiped his lips with it. He pushed himself up to his feet and she simply watched him.

"I must ready my horse," he said abruptly. "Take your time and eat at your pleasure."

He left the room. She looked down at the fruit on her plate. She was no longer hungry. She collected herself and went upstairs to give her mother one more kiss goodbye.  _Just in case._

She walked down to the stables just after but took her time doing so. He was stroking his horse's nose when she arrived at the stables. He was talking to the mighty beast softly. Jonathan stood behind the Major, cleaning his hands on his shirt. His eyes found hers and he shook his head at her. She ignored him and pinched her lips together.

"You've proven yourself a terrible escort already!" she called to the Major lightly. He looked at her, face stone. "I thought I'd have a private military escort from door to door."

He looked back at his horse.

"I –"

"Major," she stopped him. She took hold of his upper arm with both her hands. He stared down at her with a fierce gaze. She almost released him and apologized. "Have you ever been told you need to relax?"

"Very often," he replied. She drew her hands downward to settle on his forearm. Her eyes slipped to examine his uniform. She briefly pinched her bottom lip between her teeth and then cast her gaze back to his. His lips parted and she withdrew from him from with a flirtatious smile.

"Is Constantine saddled yet?" she asked Jonathan and stepped into the stables. The moment they were out of sight he grabbed her arm in a rather bruising grip.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Going to Mary's," she answered happily, a smile still on her lips.

"I mean  _with him._ "

"I think it's quite obvious what I'm doing with him," she replied. Her voice had lowered and it was hoarse. She shoved Jonathan hard on the chest to get him to release her but he held strong.

"Hope you're ready to let him fuck you acting like that," Jonathan snapped. He released her when she slapped him. He stood where he was and watched her.

"Not all of us are such cowards," she said harshly as she led Constantine passed him. She left the stable and Reynolds was gazing toward them with a frown on his face.

"Are you well, Miss Whitmore?" he asked. His eyes followed Jonathan's critically.

"Quite well. Ready?"

His response was to get on his horse. Jonathan helped her up. It was not something he normally did. He used the opportunity to squeeze hard on her fingers. She pulled her hand back and glared at him with pinched lips.

Once away from the stables, Reynolds asked, "He's Irish?"

"No, from Liverpool I think."

"No, he's not."

"His accent is such because he came here as a boy."

He grunted.

"His mother has no Irish accent I have ever heard," she assured him.

"I have nothing against an Irisher," he clarified. "But you cannot trust them."

"Care to explain the contradiction?" she asked, a bit offended on the Irishman's behalf.

"I see no tangible difference between the Celt and the Briton myself. However, some century of discord has resulted in a… anger I cannot myself say I find unjustified against the Empire. It does result in a frightful hatred against those loyal to Her."

"I'm touched by your concern."

"I would say it to any woman. You're not special in the regard."

"I see," she answered. She sat there in some shock.

"That is to say…"

"If you would not mind, perhaps we could come to a gallop?"

"Yes, please. You take the lead. I will follow."

She spurred Constantine on. They spent the rest of the ride in silence and she was happy for it. Major Reynolds was a skilled horseman and he cut a fine figure riding. When they arrived at the Alnor's she thanked him for the escort and jumped down from the horse. She handed the reins to the steward waiting for her. She greeted him and he assured her he'd take good care of Constantine. She had known him most of her life and trusted him implicitly. She was surprised when Reynolds hopped down after her and handed the reins of his own horseto the steward. He asked him to wait just a moment.

"Miss Whitmore," he called and hurried up the steps behind her. She stopped on the third step. "Door to door?" he asked and gave a sideways smile.

"You've already given up that opportunity," she teased. She turned and walked up the rest of the way. She saw him try to offer his hand but ignored it. "Thank you, Major Reynolds. I appreciate your escort."

"Miss Whitmore, please," he stopped her before she could knock on the door. She waited for him to speak. "I am not what anyone would call charming. I am short and direct. I do not much like conversation…  _or_ most people for that matter. Even when I find company with whom I find it worth engaging, I often say things I do not mean. That is to say, I say things that do not convey my meaning adequately or politely. The curse I think, is that when I do find one I wish to converse with, the more I attempt conversation the less they wish to speak with me. It's those I find contemptable that wish to saddle me with meaningless conversation."

He coughed into a closed fist, body turned away from her. He straightened back and continued.

"If you would believe it… I have made a concentrated effort this morning to engage you in polise conversation and to avoid sounding … disdainful."

"I was in the wrong to say such thins last night. I should not have spoken to you in such a manner."

"I probably deserved it," he answered. "I was hoping… and I say so now only because I have three days to recover from any rejection," he looked at her a moment. "The past two days, I've felt as though you've demonstrated… that you might wish to get to know me better. For my part, I want to know you better."

"Are you asking to court me, Major?" she asked. He laughed nervously.

"I suppose I am," he answered.

"I am flattered."

"I don't waste my time on women I think unworthy of my attention. As it turns out, most are" he said dryly. He blinked. "Well, Miss Whitmore?"

"I would be honored, Major," she answered. He did not smile.

"Good," he said. "Good. I can come to fetch you on Sunday?"

"No," she said sharply. "No, I mean, I will be attending service with Mary and… I have no idea when I might return."

"Of course. Well, I will leave you. I look forward to your return."

"Stay safe. I'll keep you in my prayers," she vowed. He hesitated and then gave a stiff bow. She watched him walk down the steps and mount his horse.

"Until Sunday," he bid farewell and tipped his cap. She knocked on the door and waved goodbye. The moment she stepped inside, she was pounced on by the manically excited Mary Alnor, who had been watching the conversation from the receiving room window.

They spent most of that afternoon discussing Major Reynolds. Jane told her of his early arrogance, his impolite and imperious attitude, her humiliating run in just the day was thrilled Jane answered yes to his request for courtship.

Mary was a bright and bubbly young woman. She was slender and of middling height with rich brow hair and vivid blue eyes. She was warm, caring, and the most beautiful girl Jane knew. Since the day Mary was born, the two girls had been best of friends, save a single summer when Jane was sixteen. That summer, Jane spent her days praying Mary would get palsy and perish.

It had been over the handsome and dashing Hugh Raleigh.

When Hugh Raleigh had come to stay with her cousins during Christmas Jane had fallen deeply, foolishly in love. Hugh Raleigh, it seemed, had liked her very much in return and for nearly a week they never parted from one another. When Mary came down the stairs for the Christmas ball he went to her side and did not leave it until he had to return to school after the holidays. At the time, Jane had been convinced that Mary had set out to steal him from her simply to prove she could. Heartbroken, Jane had not answered her calls, had not read her letters, and had cursed her in ways that should she meet an untimely end, Jane would still feel it was her own doing.

Having matured some, Jane could see that Mary had just been Mary. Kind and affectionate, a flirt, but one who loved good company and good conversation, it was no wonder he had been sucked in by her. Jane felt deeply there had been nothing malicious on Mary's part. Her bright blue eyes were stunning, her brown hair beautiful, and she had soft, delicate features. She possessed both a soft, charming smile, and one so bright it brought a smile out in anyone watching, no matter how hard they might wish to be angry with her. She was what Jane had always wished she could have been.

It had taken Jane months to get over it, but once she had and Mary had cried and kissed her hands and told her she had never dreamed of coming between her and Hugh and it devastated her to know she had brought her any pain, the two had resumed their friendship and after a few months it was as if it had never happened.

Mary postulated, and she always knew these things, that the Major was probably very arrogant and didn't think that most colonials were worth his time, but now that he has decided he was fond of Jane, he was nervous around her.

"Take the cold and unsure to flirtatious and charming," Mary decided. "One is far more secure than the other. I think it's sweet."

"But Mary," she said, crawling toward her on the bed. Mary turned her head to look at her. She was lying on her back, head hanging over the edge. She was reading her letters upside down. "He is so strange. The way he eats…"

She explained his quirks.

"Do you think he's handsome?" Mary asked.

"He is very handsome," Jane conceded.

"Is he kind?"

"Well… I don't really know," she answered.

"A man that rich, that successful, and that handsome is worth a few strange idiosyncrasies. And if he is kind and sensitive then you would be a fool not to pursue him."

Jane lay in bed that night considering the Major's words. Accepting a courtship was a dangerous strategy. Her father sanctioned the match and barring any unforeseen circumstances, would accept a marriage proposal if one came. His profession and her age made a season ending proposal more than likely.

She awoke the next morning believing it was the only possible response she could have given if she hoped to gather any sort of information from him. If she was caught in his bedroom again, after refusing an offer of courtship, she wouldn't have a single believable excuse available to her. She would feel better after she spoke to Alex.

She went for a ride with Mary about eleven. It was later than she liked to ride but Mary was not an early riser and her father indulged her far too much. She crawled out of bed around nine in the morning, took breakfast in bed, as an unmarried woman it always shocked Jane, and came floating down the stairs in her habit around quarter to eleven, ready for a horse ride.

Mary did not have the same skill on a horse as Jane. Mary wasn't really the type of woman that enjoyed riding outside of what was necessary. She much preferred walking. When Jane came to stay with her on extended stays, they would alternate days. One day they would ride, the next they would walk. Mary was content to spend hours out in the countryside, walking and colleting flowers.

"Do you know what route our dashing Major Reynolds takes when he rides?" Mary asked with a little smile.

"Mary, no," Jane sighed.

"You cannot keep him all to yourself! I want to meet him. Let us go search for him."

"No," Jane answered. "You go search at your pleasure. I'm going to read."

"Jane!" Mary called back indignantly, but Jane was already racing back toward the stables. The two laughed happily when they arrived and they spent the late morning and early afternoon in the drawing room. Mary was painting, though it consisted mostly of her frowning at the canvas, hands covered in paint. She was very skilled at drawing, she could play the piano beautiful and she had a magnificent singing voice. Painting was never a skill she had been able to master and Jane always found the sight amusing. Jane glanced up from her book and smiled as she watched her friend, deep in thought, examine her paint covered hands.

"How is that something you even managed?" Jane asked after a few moments of observation. Mary huffed and sighed angrily.

"Oh, I don't know!" she cried. "It is a pretty picture though! Come see."

Jane obeyed. She paused at the painting and tilted her head to the side.

"Oh… Mary," Jane said sadly. Mary's shoulders slumped.

"I know," she lamented.

"Miss Whitmore," a servant she did not know came into the room. The Alnor's always had a fully staffed house and there was often turnover. "A package royal messenger."

Mary squealed in delight behind her. Jane accepted the small parcel with a frown. The servant left the room and Jane slowly pulled the little note from the twine holding together the paper wrapping.

_Miss Whitmore. An apology. I hope this finds you well. – JR_

Mary was reading over her shoulder.

"An apology? Apology for what?"

"Could be a number of things," she thought, and while it was true, she first thought of his words over breakfast the day before regarding her mother. She had never seen him look so horrified as when those words almost left his mouth. She ripped open the covering. Inside she found a leather-bound book, first edition.

"Oh! What a gift!" Mary cried happily. Jane allowed herself a smile.

"He enjoys poetry," Jane told her friend as she flipped open the book.

"If you do not convince him to attend the ball I will be cross with you," Mary informed her. She went over to her painting. "Very, very cross."

Jane offered her friend a quick smile. She looked back down to the book and slowly ran her hand over the cover.

That night at dinner, Jane convinced Mr. and Mrs. Alnor that she had promised to spend the morning service time with her mother. She found that she could get away with almost anything simply by mentioning her mother's name.

She saddled Constantine around seven in the morning and set off for home. Her belongings would fallow shortly after. She arrived before Alex did. She let Constantine drink some water and sat down to read her poem book. She wanted to have some committed to memory by the time she saw the Major again. Alex arrived shortly after noon. It was all well in good. Her father believed she was attending service at the Alnor chapel. It would not do well to return home too early.

He jumped from his horse as handsome as ever. He had some growth on his face, but he was clean and looked well.

"Sweet Janie," he greeted with a smile and the two kissed.

"I could not get anything," she told him. "I tried. He is very careful. I can though. I –"

"I trust you," he grinned. "The key to everything is secrecy."

Jane told him about the passed few days. He listened intently, nodding grimly.

"Unfortunate he was there."

"I still have no ide how I missed him returning. I  _saw him leave."_

"It's passed and he believed your lie. There is no reason to focus on it now."

It was one of the reasons she loved Alex so much. He was always encouraging, always understanding and forward thinking. She saw him in congress one day, after this dreadful war was won.

"I have some instructions for you," he said. He pulled a letter from his pocket. "The type of information the militia is looking for. How we want to get the information, et cetera. Sit with me. We'll go over it together. I can't leave this with you."

They sat down and went over the instructions. The routes were everything. If she could get them the information of a route before it changed, and do so consistently, she would play a huge role in the fight for New York.

"You'll have a contact. I don't know who it is yet," Alex told her. He let her read over the letter from Captain Clarke a few more times. "But he'll make contact within the next fortnight."

Jane nodded. Her heart was pounding. The pressure of this new responsibility threatened to crush the resolve out of her. She fought it down. She would never forgive herself if she let fear overcome her now.

"How will I know its him?"

"He will say the phrase "the coffee is far stronger in France."

"Easy to get into conversation but something anyone might say," she replied, unconvinced. Alex held up a finger.

"To which you will respond, 'I've had coffee from France and I hope more will arrive soon."

"Clever," Jane said sarcastically.

"Jane this is serious. After you say that, he is going to say, "Call on me when it arrives."

"That's so…"

"Normal?" Alex asked. "This man might come to you while you're in the presence of British officers."

"And if I mistake the contact's identity?" she asked. "What if I… what if I find out I'm only having a conversation about coffee and I've just admitted to treason?"

"You'll know, Jane," Alex promised. "You'll know."

Jane nodded.

"Do you have any suggestions? How I get this information?"

She was reading the letter over again. Alex was silent a few moments.

"Get close to him," he said softly. She looked at him. She could see the discomfort in his face, the regret in his voice. "He seems fond of you. How could he not be? Look at you." She blushed. "Men in love talk and… it might give you access to his papers and affects…"

She swallowed and nodded. She'd knew it was the only way, but she needed to hear it from someone else.

"Jane it does not mean you must do anything… untoward…"

"I know," she said. "I'll do what I have to do."

Alex looked at her. His face was grim and severe.

"Jane. The information you could get for us, if we can cohobate it, and send it to the main army… this could be everything."

She felt the swell of pride and excitement. With it, an equal swell of crippling terror. He gave a sideways smile.

"The coffee is far stronger in France."

"I've had it and I… I want more soon?"

Alex sighed but smiled.

"Alright. Let's go over everything again."

* * *

Jane stepped inside just passed four. A servant got up, thanked Mother Mary, and hurried down to her father's study to inform him she was home safe. She received a sound scolding for keeping him so worried all day and then set her free. She found Major Reynolds on the staircase. He was speaking with another officer. She remained back, listening at a polite distance. It was rather boring conversation about how Major Reynolds preferred the seals to be applied to letters he received.

He was surprised when he turned to finish his decent down the stairs and found her there. He came down and stopped before her, a small smile on his lips. He was a stare above her and the height of him was almost comical from this angle.

"Good afternoon, Miss Whitmore. I'm pleased to see you've returned to the house," he greeted her.

"I'm pleased to be back," she answered. She held up her poem book. "I want to thank you for this. It's wonderful."

"Lacks staying power, but I enjoy the poems, especially for spring," he answered.

"Indeed, I stopped my horse to read some of them up by the Alnor's orchard. They are Lovely."

"I am pleased you like it."

There were a few moments of silence.

"You are going riding?" she asked. She noted the quirt in his hand.

"Oh, yes. I must leave briefly. I hope to return for dinner, though I find it unlikely."

"That's a pity."

"Yes, but I will return before tomorrow. I will be free after three o'clock if you'd like to walk about the gardens? I've yet to see them in full."

"That would be lovely. I'll bring the poems. We could read some by the duck pond? It's beautiful."

"I will look forward it," he said. "Now, if you'd excuse me."

He gave a nod and moved passed her. He hurried down the stairs, the officer he had been speaking to close behind. She blushed at the thought that he had listened to their short and awkward conversation, but he gave no sign of any sort of comprehension or judgement.

She retired to her room and flipped through the poem book. She read superficially. She was busy going through a simple conversation about coffee over and over again in her head.


	6. Chapter Six

Six:

John walked up the steps with an absolute splitting headache. The reports in his breast pocket weighed on him heavily. His shoulders and back ached and he was so hungry he was nauseous. He'd spent a half day on a horse. Two days before that in road side canvas tents. Gun powder, muskets, balls, cannon, bodies, maps. His brain was a muddled mess. He just wanted something to drink and eat, a cold bath, and a soft bed.

He flung the front door open violently but the door was heavy enough that it did not slam against the far wall. He spotted a servant leaning against the bannister of the staircase chatting happily with the pretty young girl that worked in the kitchens. He could not care less that the girl was not supposed to be upstairs. He made for the stairs, barking as he went, "I want a bath drawn. Don't bother warming the water. Bread and drinking water. What was served for dinner last night? Bring me the cold cuts."

They watched him in wonder. They stood frozen. He did not break stride as he shouted, "Now! Go!"

The servant jumped to attention, wide eyed, and began to ramble. The girl ran off down the hall in a hasty retreat. As he marched on to the steps, he glanced into rooms as he went, hoping to find Miss Whitmore within. By the time his brain registered that he had spotted her in the receiving room, he was passed it. He stopped abruptly, turned on his heel and paused in the doorway.

"Miss Whitmore," he greeted. His mouth was dry with dehydration. She looked up from her task. She was laying out a table cloth with the help of the maid Jenny. Noting the importance she had placed upon knowing the servants names, he looked to the maid, nodded and said, "Jenny."

The servant's eyes widened.

"Major Reynolds," Miss Whitmore smiled sweetly. "You've returned."

Her hair was up, loose curls escaping around her shoulders. She wore a pretty green dress. He thought she should wear the color more often. Her eyes were brilliantly green. She looked clean and soft. Looking at her, he longed for a glass of water.

"I have," he answered. He rubbed his forehead. There was a terrible, piercing pin radiating from the right side of his nose and shooting up his skull and back down the other side of his head. "You must forgive me. I had no idea I would be held so long." He felt the papers weighing more heavily on his pocket. He was three days late to their appointment.

"I cannot fault you," she answered graciously. She looked him over slowly. His uniform was dust, his boots were muddy. "An Officer in a time of war has a terribly unpredictable schedule."

"We will walk tomorrow. Three o'clock," he said. He's eyebrows lifted and he realized he'd just barked an order at her. He sighed. "Forgive me. Tomorrow, if it will please you."

"Is something the matter? Are you unwell?"

Her brow was furrowed and she advanced toward him. A small, cool hand pressed to his cheek and then his forehead. It was a gentle, soothing touch. A touch he had not experienced in some time.

"I am tired and hungry," he answered as lightly as he could. "I will not be present at dinner."

"I'm sorry to hear it but I think it's for the best. You look terrible."

"Thank you," he smiled.

"I mean only compared to your normal handsome self," she responded coyly. His smile became a bit more relaxed. He was struck with another violent wave of nausea.

"Thank you," he said. He added hopefully. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," she promised. "Now rest and sleep well."

"I will."

He nodded, lingered a moment, unsure if he should say something else, and then walked up the stairs. His bath was ready just after he finished eating. He nearly ate the slices of chicken whole. He was partially undressed before he began emptying the contents of his stomach into his chamber pot. He submerged himself in the cool water, letting the grime and sweat wash away from his body. He felt some of the nausea subside and he was left with full hunger again.

He must have fallen asleep. The next thing he knew he was being shaken awake by a male servant and a towel had been draped over him to protect his modesty.

"Afraid you was dead." he said and left the room upon being ordered out. He dressed for bed and fell into the sheets. Once again, he slept satisfied he was pressed to sheets Miss Whitmore had once laid against.

When her father had first approached him about courting his daughter he had been rather shocked. He would never have even considered her as a romantic possibility. A young woman of her wealth and status was well above even in his most hopeful prospects. When her father sat him down and rather bluntly informed him he would not be opposed to the courtship, he had thought the man insane, though Richard Whitmore was a man who possessed great love for King and Country.

It was only then that he gave any sort of serious thought to Miss Whitmore. She was a bit guarded at first, though he had to admit she was beautiful. He considered a few days whether or not he should approach her. Once the decision he bungled almost every attempt at conversation. No matter how hard he tried, words never seemed to escape him the way they should.

He had all but decided he would never succeed in any attempt to court young Miss Whitmore when she came bursting into his room believing he was out for his morning ride. He was dubious as to her real intentions until she reached out to touch him. Perhaps it had been his lack of interaction with the fairer sex in any meaningful way for sometime, but the touch had sent a pulse of pleasure that pulsed through his limbs, it turned the blood in his veins into boiling wax. He then became absolutely convinced that, despite his inability to converse with women, she was attracted to him. It inspired an uncharacteristic confidence in him.

He was not ignorant. He knew he was handsome. He knew the uniform held a certain sway over women. He never really understood it, but he knew it. Usually his curt nature and his inability to speak turned women off from him. Amazingly, this girl was still open to conversation with him. It left him feeling uneasy whenever he was close to her.

When he woke up the next morning it was just after seven in the morning. He'd slept a good long while and he was pleased he would still have a full day of work in before his appointment with Miss Whitmore.

He sat himself on the edge of the bed and read through his letters still in his dressing gown. He sighed and said a little prayer.

Just passed noon a rider came with more dispatches. He observed the seals but did not open them immediately. Instead, he finished updating his map of the Jersey border.

He reached for the letters. He opened Chadwick's first. He read it over carefully.

_Major Reynolds,_

_The shipment arrived early and well protected. Not an ounce of powder unaccounted for and only five casualties. You have a bright military career ahead of you. I will be writing to General Clinton to inform him of your genius._

_God Save the King,_

_Colonel John Chadwick_

The word casualties stared out at him from the page and he felt a crushing weight come down upon him. He closed his eyes and lowered his head.

Next he reached for the report from Boswell and ripped it open.

_John Barnes - Gloucester - 17_

_Edward Chilton - Gloucester - 21_

_John Fulls - Chelteham - 19_

_George Norton - Tewksbury - 24_

_James Norton - Tewksbury - 22_

He closed his eyes when he finished reading. All younger than he and two of them brothers.

He penned letters to all five families with a lump in his throat. His headache was beginning to return. He placed a pound in each envelope and sealed it. He prayed it would reach their destination with money inside.

He took his lunch in his room. He did not wish to be disturbed. He examined his map for the rest of the afternoon, trying to see where he had gone wrong. What better route was available to him that he missed.

The problem was he knew precisely how he could have avoided fatalities all together. He had simply made a very calculated decision not to follow that course of action. Risk vs. expediency. It was the Empire's primary concern. The supplies. Not the men. Supply was limited, the soldiers were not.

He walked down stairs just before three to collect Miss Whitmore from the drawing room. He found her there seated in a chair by the window, illuminated in sunlight, book closed on her lap, staring out at the gorgeous blue sky with a pensive expression. His heart rate accelerated ever so slightly. A marriage to her, colonial or not, would elevate his social status and advance his military career enormously.

"Miss Whitmore," he greeted. She turned her head to look at him. When she spotted him, she smiled at him.

"You look better rested, though not all well," she informed him.

"It was a trying few days," he admitted. He remembered some advice he had received long ago about not to worrying women over men's business and said, "I could use a distraction."

"Allow me to distract," she smiled brightly. They walked down the hallway together, a respectable distance apart. He considered offering his arm but decided against it. "I know you already made yourself clear to my father, but I must press the issue, Mary Alnor would be horribly upset if you did not attend the ball."

"Whether or not I upset Mary Alnor is no concern of mine," he said dismissively. She walked ahead a few steps to open the door and he added boldly, but stiffly, "I would consider it, however, if it meant upsetting you."

She opened the door and looked back at him with an amused smile and inquisitive eyes. Her interest in him baffled him. If he had been a man of wealth he would understand her actions. In fact, if he were Simon, he would not feel even remotely nervous in the current situation, but he wasn't Simon and he was nervous.

"It would upset me if you did not attend."

"What is the date?"

"May 31 into June 1."

"I will attend," he conceded. She turned to hide her smile. He added, "but only if I can secure a promise from you now."

"What promise?"

"That you not abandon me for more pleasant company. I dislike social events to this magnitude and I'd rather not sit in the corner and watch you dance all night."

"Many men might like to watch me dance," she teased.

"I'd rather hear you speak," he answered. He walked with his hands behind his back and his face angled toward the ground.

"I promise I will not abandon you a single second," she vowed. "But you must promise to dance with me at least four times."

"I only know two dances."

"Which ones?"

"The allemande and the guige."

"Then those will be yours and I won't part with you a single second," she said again.

"I do not want to keep you from dancing. I mean only I'd like the majority of your time, not all."

"I promise if you attend I will not abandon you," she swore solemnly. She smiled and continued on.

"Then I will attend," he vowed. He was a bit embarrassed he had made such a childish request, but he would not have attended otherwise.

She showed him the gardens. He could not help the reaction when she referred to them as the "English style." When she asked him "what was that?" he replied "everything colonials refer to as "English" is almost always German."

He explained the history to her. True colonial heritage began only after George I took the throne. Everything they hoped to copy was based on the new Kings' tastes and the new Kings were German.

"Whitmore House was built in 1693."

"And William of Orange was not English," he pointed out.

"And he was Dutch. Not German. And his wife, Queen Mary, was English."

"She spent a good long while on Holland prior to becoming Queen."

"You think English Royalty would so soon forget their lineage?" she countered.

He gave a crooked smile.

"You are a scholar of history?"

"I have little else to do but read. Women have very limited hobbies available to them. Luckily for me, my father gave me a wonderful education."

"Women should receive the same education as men," he asserted boldly. She turned to him in surprise. "Well I mean early education of course. Not college. But women raise the future and should be well educated. Cross stitch and piano... that they can master in their free time."

"Rather forward thinking," she said dryly.

"Intelligent thinking. Few of us possess the ability anymore."

"You really are not frightened of insulting people, are you?" she asked with a laugh. He hazarded a smile.

"No," he answered. "I think the world would be a better place if people said what they believed. Besides, I'm right. Why not say it?"

"Not a man lacking confidence."

He laughed.

"Depends on the situation."

"The duck pond is here," she said just as it came into view. It was a beautiful little spot. It was more than a simple duck pond. The water was blue and there were benches along the water. Flowers were planted along the edges, lilac trees and a giant willow on the other side.

Miss Whitmore picked a spot where she did not have to sit beside him, but instead across. She settled down on a Little Rock clearly carved for sitting and he took the bench.

"Do you have a poem you'd like to start with?"

He was looking out at the water. The letters weighed heavily against his chest. His heart ached.

"Major?"

He looked over in surprise.

"Forgive me. What was it you said?"

She observed him closely. Her brow came forward.

"What happened while you were away?" she asked softly.

"It is nothing you need concern yourself with," he answered with a painful smile.

"You do not want to be distracted," she said, closing the book. "You want to talk about it."

"I could not trouble you so," he said, though in truth he did want to talk about it. He simply had no confidants. His best friends, only friends, had been sent back to England for the time being. His staff was competent but they would think as Chadwick did.

"I am a very good listener," she pressed. He considered a few moments.

"I left Jersey yesterday morning just after one. I was overseeing a movement toward the New Jersey border. I did not like the looks of things as they were. I ordered a deviation. They were to move west and cut down south. It seemed wise... closer to loyal territory. Though it would have been safer to move north, east, south. It would have taken far too long. I chose expediency over absolute security." He read the letter. "The shipment arrived safely and in one piece. I received this letter this morning."

He handed her the correspondence. The official military seal was still on the parchment.

_Major Reynolds,_

_The shipment arrived early and well protected. Not an ounce of powder unaccounted for and only five casualties. You have a bright military career ahead of you. I will be writing to General Clinton to inform him of your genius._

_God Save the King,_

_Colonel John Chadwick_

"This is good news," she said as she handed it back. He read it over and then pulled out another piece of crinkled parchment.

"The casualty report," he said as he surrendered it to her.

_John Barnes - Gloucester - 17_

_Edward Chilton - Gloucester - 21_

_John Fulls - Chelteham - 19_

_George Norton - Tewksbury - 24_

_James Norton - Tewksbury - 22_

She read it over.

"It is tragic. These families will suffer, but it is a time of war. These men gave their lives for the security of our Empire. Find comfort in that."

"How can I find comfort when I am the reason they're dead?" he asked harshly, though it was not directed at her. She seemed to understand that and simply waited. "I knew there was a significant risk there would be casualties. I chose it over the safer direction because I needed it to get there in six hours instead of twelve. And now five men are dead. And it's my bloody fault."

"It is  _not_  your fault," she said passionately _._ He looked to her searchingly. She came over to sit beside him. "You did your duty and you did it well. Your job is the supplies not the soldiers."

"You sound like Chadwick," he smiled sadly. "I've never lost anyone under my command," he admitted. "Before the war, I was in Canada. There was no risk. Before that I served in the West Indies and India. I had no role of importance." He paused so he could impress the importance of his next words, "Five men are dead, because of a decision I made."

One of her small hands closed over his comfortingly. "If you had not sensed the danger and changed the route, you might have lost ten men. Twenty. Think of the men you saved not those you lost."

"I've never been the cheerful sort," he admitted. He paused to think her words over. She knew when to speak and when to be silent. She was silent now. He rested a hand over hers and looked out at the water.

"I should have sent them North and East," he murmured softly. He shook his head. "I knew it."

"You're going to lose more," she said suddenly. He looked at her. "You can't possibly escape the summer without more deaths. I'm no soldier. You know it better than I. If you do this to yourself every time, if you second guess every decision you make after a loss of men, you'll go absolutely insane. It will affect your work, your sanity, and your health. You will finish this war having saved more men than lost. I have not a single doubt of that."

"You are a wise woman, Miss Whitmore."

He reached back into his coat. Their hands separated. He smoothed the map out on his knee.

"This is the border," he explained. "I sent them here," he traced with a finger. "I wanted to send them here."

"Where was the original route? The one you disliked."

"Here," he showed her. It was a straight path.

"That would have been idiotic. What fool derived that plan?" she asked.

"I did."

"Oh," she said.

"No, you're right. It was why I left. I wanted to see the land myself. It would have been suicide. I spoke to some of the locals. There's a large rebel population in this entire are."

"Is that a standard military map?" She asked. "It is so detailed."

"No, this I drew," he explained. "When I have the luxury of viewing the location, I will make my own adjustments. I speak to loyal subjects to better understand the land. If we lose this war it will be because we do not understand the geography."

"You don't possibly think we could lose," she said with a tremor of anxiety. She lifted up the map to examine.

"No," he comforted. "But if we conduct ourselves as such, we will."

"You drew this?"

"I did."

"Amazing," she murmured. He smiled. "I used to draw maps. My father told me it was not a hobby for a young girl. I asked for proper lessons. He refused but did not stop me from copying the atlas on my own."

"Does the home own an atlas?" he asked.

"In the library," she answered.

"I must show you where I served," he said excitedly. She smiled at him.

"I would enjoy that."

He jumped up.

"I can show you now."

She tucked the poem book under arm and they walked back toward the house.

"Do you think I could show you my maps?" She asked him. "Perhaps, you could tutor me?"

"I would be glad to."

"I know you spend all day with maps. I don't wish to cause you to pluck your eyes out with your soup spoon."

He chuckled.

"Never. Then I'd be unable to watch you dance at the ball."

"I thought you'd rather hear me speak?" She teased.

"Preferring one over the other doesn't negate the desire for both," he replied.

"Mary will insist on a dance from you," she warned him.

"And I will refuse," he answered bluntly. He had no interest interacting with these people. They reminded him of his father, his brothers.

"You are a strange man," she told him. She opened a door he had not known existed and they slipped inside.

"I'm a military man," he said. "And I don't like people."

She laughed again. He followed her down the library hall and they arrived in an open area nestled in a long row of shelves. It was an impressive library for a colonial home.

"Here it is," she said. The large book lay open on a mahogany desk. A settee rested in the corner, A few comfortable chairs were strewn about, and there was a chair for the desk.

He flipped the pages to India. It was an expensive atlas. It had a large number of countries and all locations under dominion of the Crown.

"Ah. Calcutta," he said, tapping his finger. "A hot, dirty, miserable place. I spent five years there."

"How long have you been in the military?" She asked, some surprise in her voice.

"Just south of a decade."

"What's an heir to fortune doing making a career out of the military?" she asked. He observed her a few moments. She was gazing down at the book with interest. Without reason he answered, "I always wanted to join the military. My father was not happy about it, but I joined anyway."

He cleared his throat and went on.

"I've four brothers so I'm of little consequence."

"Oh I'm sure that's not true," she answered. He let out a slow, steadying breath. It was quiet enough that she did not hear it.

"Draw the map," she ordered suddenly. She retrieved some parchment, a pen and ink, and forced him to sit in the chair.

"I'm afraid I'll be no good if I have such a critical audience," he lamented. He held his right hand over the paper.

"You may use your left," she offered. She leaned against the desk and he looked up sharply. She smiled coyly, "I won't tell a soul."

"I don't know what you mean," he denied.

"You don't mask it all that well," she informed him. "If one looks close enough it's clear you favor the left. You write and eat with your right dominant but you reach for everything with your left. Your letters, they were in your right chest pocket. You checked your watch just a few moments ago with your left hand, and you flipped the pages of the book and pointed just now with the left. When you first escorted me up the stairs, you extended your left hand to me."

"You are observant," he conceded. He put the pen in his left hand. "I can use both without anyone noticing a marked difference. My father had me use the right since I began my education. I received beatings when I used the left." He remembered fondly, "my mother always let me use the left. I think that is why I never broke free from it."

He signed his name then switched hands and did the same. "As you can see, there is a significant difference."

"My goodness," she mused. "Look at that. Both are perfectly proper but..."

"I always sign with the right now though. To avoid inconsistencies."

She took the pen from him and tried to sign with her left. He chuckled at the result.

"Don't," he cautioned as she continued to write. He gently caught her wrist. He moved her hand. "Hook the wrist or you'll smudge the ink."

She tried. She giggled and surrendered the pen to him.

"Draw the map," she ordered and he obeyed. She added dejectedly once he had finished, "I could never draw something like that. Free hand and it looks as though it was done by a proper surveyor."

"I've five years practice," he said, snatching it out of her hand and putting it back on the table. "I stood sentry here." He pointed to the spot on the map he had drawn. It was the quarter he had been stationed to. "Twelve hours a day." He moves to the atlas map. "We were stationed here. I'd walk five miles to post... took me about two hours, stand for twelve, walk back. Three days on one off. I spent the majority of that day sleeping."

"Not chasing beautiful, brown skinned women?" she teased.

"There were many beautiful women," he agreed. "The colors there were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. But I had no time for seduction and too little coin to pay."

"Too little coin?" she asked. He was once more hit with the full force of it and he swallowed thickly.

"My father thought if he sent no money I would come home," he answered. It was not a lie. "I was born for a military life. It's the only thing I'm good at."

"Not so," she disagreed. He looked up at her. She put her hand on his shoulder. "You are a marvelous artist. You have wonderful taste in poetry. And you make my mother happy."

He smiled kindly.

"My mother was named Margaret," he explained. "I lost her far too young."

"I'm sorry."

"I've mourned and moved on," he said brusquely, turning his attention back to the book. She let the topic drop.

"You will truly teach me?" she asked. "Surely you don't wish to spend your scarce free time engaging in yet more work."

"It will be no chore. I enjoy your company very much."

"I enjoy yours," she admitted with a blush. He smiled slightly. "When you're not behaving in such an abrasive manner that is."

"Yes. What was it you said? I demonstrated nothing but disdain?"

"That was unfair of me. I was –"

"Accurate in your evaluation I would guess. Perhaps I do have disdain for others, but if you experienced it I assure you it was misdirected."

"I was merely embarrassed. Darling carrying on as he was..."

"Darling is a fool but never cruel. He was not mocking you. I myself, I think you are... very beautiful." He kept his back to her so he could get it all out.

"For a colonial you mean."

"For anyone," he answered.

"Major – "

"Miss Jane. Dinner is ready! Your father wants you there before the Major arrives - oh!" the maid, Rebecca, came around the corner. "Major Reynolds, Sir. It is 5:02 Sir."

"Already?" He asked. He checked his watch and true enough he grabbed it with his left hand without realizing it. "My goodness where did the afternoon go."

He rose and nodded at the girl.

"Thank you, Rebecca."

The girl's eyes widened and she hurried off without a word.

"She is terrified of you," Miss Whitmore observed with an amused grin.

"I've never even spoken to her," he objected.

"It's your manner. Very stern," she said. She grinned and touched his jacket. "Come now Major. You're late."

He followed her out of the library, enjoying the sway of her hips as she went. When they arrived in the dining room Richard stood, red faced, ready to scold his daughter. The color drained from his face and returned to normal once he entered the room.

"Forgive me, Richard. Miss Whitmore was showing me the gardens and library. I'm afraid time got away from us."

"I told you. Only a beautiful woman could make Major Reynolds break from his schedule," Darling smiled.

He took his seat at the opposite end of the table as Richard and glanced in her direction. She let out a short "sorry, papa," as she sat.

"Oh no, no, Major, no apologies. I simply did not wish to disrupt your schedule on behalf of my daughter. She can be a bit flighty sometimes."

The look on her face was thoroughly amusing but he kept his face straight.

"I found her conversation stimulating," he answered.

"Oh well yes, my Jane is very intelligent. I only mean she can be a bit forgetful. Like her mother."

"Like all women," Ainsworth added with a smile. The look he received from Miss Whitmore was brief by scathing. It was a quick flash of angry resentment that he could not help but think many women of Miss Whitmore's disposition and intelligence were bound to feel.

Richard tried to enter into conversation with him and he decided to engage. It was when the main meal was served that John looked over and realized Miss Whitmore was attempting to eat with her left hand. He smothered a smile as best he could but everyone at the table seemed to take note of his lighter attitude.

There was a sudden clang in which the fork came shooting out of her hand and banged against her plate. It drew everyone's attention and she looked up in surprise, eyes wide.

"Jane, what in the world –" her father cried.

"Forgive me," she said. She switched back to her proper hand.

"What kind of nonsense..." her father sputtered. She looked at John and the two exchanged small smiles. He decided to come to her rescue.

"Miss Whitmore and I were speaking of those who had dominant left hands earlier," John explained. "She did not believe me that one could be trained to use the other hand from a young age. I told her at this point she would be unable to use the left if she tried. I believe she was attempting to make a point and failed in doing so."

He looked at her to give a small indication he was teasing.

"Well... joke or no joke," Richard said. "I'll not have her mimicking such deviancy at my table. You should know better, Jane darling. Use the right as God intended."

"Yes father," she answered. She looked at John again. He struggled not to laugh.

"I do not understand the youth of today," Richard said, shaking his head.

He discussed farming with Richard for most of the dinner. He learned he had a much larger merchant operation than he had originally pretended. Miss Whitmore was quiet for dinner. She was looking down at her plate and thinking deeply. When they all rose at the end of dinner he elected to remain a bit longer. Her company had been very pleasant this afternoon.

"I'll remain for a time," he told her. The others were filing out. "If you don't protest."

"Certainly not," she smiled. "We can go through the poem book. Allow me to fetch it."

She hurried off toward the library and then caught up with the gentlemen in the sitting room. Richard was very surprised to see him, but he settled himself a bit in the back to avoid conversation. Before it could grow too involved, Miss Whitmore hurried back into the room with the book, ever so slightly out of breath.

She sat down beside him with a small apology.

"Ah, now I see," Ainsworth chuckled. He ignored the older man. He did not like being teased by a subordinate, no matter his age.

"Do you have a favorite?" she asked him.

"I do."

He took the book and went through it. He glanced toward his subordinates anxiously. He saw their playful glances his way and he straightened.

"This one is um… enjoyable," he said and pointed it to her. She started reading it aloud. "Oh, no," he said. He put his hand on top of the book. "Not aloud."

She looked at him in surprise. Her lips parted slightly.

"Forgive me, I did not know you had it in you to be embarrassed," she teased.

"I'm not embarrassed," he said in a hushed voice. He shifted slightly in his chair, leaning back and crossing his legs. She looked at him and with a tiny smile.

"Wait five minutes," she told him and snapped the book shut.

'Five minutes?"

"Well, gentleman, I am terribly sorry, but I am utterly exhausted. I must retire," she said and after a kiss from her father, she turned away his subordinates' pleas for her to stay with ease and grace. She floated out of the room and he glanced at the clock. He did not really listen to the conversation he was dragged into. He made the necessary, obligatory responses. He watched the clock move at an excruciatingly slow pace. Yet it was ten minutes before he excused himself and made his way up the stairs.

He found Miss Whitmore waiting, leaning up against a wall, the book in her hands. She smiled as he approached her. A smile of his own came to his lips.

"We may read in your room or mine?" he asked softly. Her eyes brows shot straight up.

"Oh, Major Reynolds. That is a shocking suggestion."

"Oh, no. I meant only to read truly. I'd never, I would never have suggested –"

"I merely wanted to say goodnight properly and find out when we may read in private? At the dunk pond or the library. Not a bedroom," she added with stern playfulness. His cheeks were flushed.

"Three o'clock? Tomorrow?" he asked. She examined the book with a tiny grin.

"I look forward to it," she answered. He nodded. He wasn't sure what else to say.

"Good night, Major Reynolds."

"I thought, perhaps, I could start calling you Jane? If we are to have a friendship."

"Usually, you'd start by asking me to call you John. I would accept and then graciously offer you to call me Jane."

He cleared his throat. She laughed playfully. Her hand touched his coat lapel. He joined in her soft laughter.

"Please, Miss Whitmore, call me John?"

"That is very flattering, Major, are you certain?" she asked.

"I am."

"Then please, call me Jane."

"I am honored."

The two exchanged smiles.

"Well then. Good night, Jane," he said. She bit her bottom lip. She suddenly turned very serious. Her eyes were searching. A beautiful, magnificent color of green. It reminded him of Ireland.

"Good night, John," she said. She squeezed lapel tighter. She stepped closer. He got up on her tip-toes. He closed his eyes when her lips touched his cheek. It was a brief, soft kiss and she fell back on her heels. She slipped away and he watched her retreat to her room.

"Good night, Jane," he said again when her door was open. She smiled.

"Good night."

He stepped into his room, a very real smile on his face. He walked over to his desk, lit some candles, and placed his letters in their proper place. He stared at the paper a few minutes. His heart still ached but he focused instead on Miss Whitmore's – Jane's – smile, her laugh, and the gentle touch her lips on his cheek. He set his jaw and turned his head. He looked at the letter he had left unopened on his desk. He picked it up, examined the front of it, and slapped it back down.

_What's an heir to fortune doing making a career out of the military?_

He continued to stare at the letter.

_Major Reynolds, allow me to say as well, as long as your intentions are honorable, I would not consider it an insult to my hospitality if you wanted to spend time with my daughter. Get to know her better._

With a sudden burst of rage, he dragged his arms across the top of his desk. Head hung low, he stood with his shoulders hunched, leaning against his desk, in a flurry of scatter maps, papers, and candlewax.


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Jane woke up in a wonderful mood. She was overcome with a tremendous sense of triumph. A small step to be sure but she had her first real victory. Major Reynolds had demonstrated a willingness to share military information with her. She could only imagine what he might confide in her as their relationship progressed. Major Reynolds was, surprisingly, easily taken in by a pretty face. He had showed a vulnerability that she had not previously thought he possessed. Now she only had to find out how to best exploit it. She swallowed down a glimmer of reluctance as Rebecca dressed her for the day.

She held off breakfast and instead read from the poem book most of the morning. She made little notes. Things to ask the Major about during their next conversation. She paid particular attention to the passages he had already marked. When ten o'clock chimed on the library clock she rose, pinched her cheeks and fussed with her dress. Slowly and with a bit of anxiety she walked down the hall. She stopped in the breakfast room doorway and looked in on the Major. He had a piece of fruit raised on his fork and he examined it closely. His brow was furrowed and his lips turned down in a severe frown.

"Is it going to do something?" she finally asked, amusement lifting her voice upward. He looked up in surprise and then chuckled. He lowered the fruit back to the little dish it came from.

"Oh, no," he answered. "I thought I saw a brown spot."

"God forbid," she added sarcastically but he nodded in very serious agreement.

"Indeed," he answered.

"Could I trouble you with some company?"

"It would be no trouble at all," he said and stood as she entered the room. He motioned to the spot in front of him. "Have you eaten? Please."

She gently rested the poem book on the table, drawing his gaze to it. He seemed pleased she had it with her.

"Jenny. Another setting."

"Please, Jenny. Thank you," Jane smiled at her. Jenny gave a quick bend of the knees and hurried out. "Being polite to them goes a very long way. You'd be amazed what they hear, what they know. Valuable friends to have."

"It's a business relationship," he said bluntly. "You pay them. They aren't simply helpful people and it is not as though they don't have the ability to leave if they wish."

"And find work in another house like this?" Jane asked. "I think their movement is more limited than either of us can truly appreciate."

"You're very sympathetic to the lesser classes," he observed. He had paused his breakfast.

"Aren't you?" she asked. "You took the time to learn her name."

"I suppose I am. In truth, I suppose I treat them as I treat everyone."

"Curtly and coldly," she said. He was about to defend himself rather passionately when she smiled at him. He smiled sheepishly and nodded.

"Curtly and coldly," he agreed. They paused when Jenny returned with a place setting. Jane dismissed her and chose to put her own food on her own plate. The Major resumed eating once she had completed her task.

"Did you sleep? I was worried you might not sleep." She looked up from her food to examine him. He looked tired. Usually he looked so well rested.

"I slept, though not well. Were it not for your steadying words yesterday, I fear I'd not have slept at all."

"I'm pleased I could help," she smiled.

"You did," he said appreciatively. "I feel... saddened but resolved."

"I could not imagine such responsibility." It was true. She meant it.

"It is daunting," he agreed. "But as you said, we are at war, and I will destroy myself if I let myself feel it so deeply. The time for mourning the dead comes later. You like the poems?"

"Yes, very much. I've almost read them all twice. The ones you marked, more so."

"Oh yes," he said. "I read it on my passage to Canada. When I was not... indisposed."

"Indisposed."

"I don't have the stomach for ships."

"Ah."

"I prefer hard land beneath my boots. A reason I am glad my attempts to join the navy failed."

"And you would not have been stationed here."

His face grew softer and he smiled. He agreed, "And I would not have been stationed here."

"Miss Jane," George interrupted them. She turned to face him in her chair. "Guests for you outside."

She frowned. "Guests?"

"Miss Alnor, Miss Worths, Mr. Underwood. And two others. In the phaeton."

"All of them?" she asked.

"Mr. Underwood, another gentleman and Miss Worths are on horseback."

"I will be there in a moment," she said.

She turned back to the Major. He was eating patiently. "I am very sorry, Major."

"Do not apologize. Go and enjoy the day. I will be here when you return."

"Will you come so I can introduce you?" she asked. He hesitated. It was clearly not something he wanted to do. He examined his food longingly. Finally, he lowered his fork and rose from the table. He informed Jenny curtly not to let anyone remove his food. He was not finished. He said it twice.

They stepped outside into the sunlight. Sure enough, Mary Ellen Worths, George Stewart, and Edward Hayden were on horseback. Mary sat in the phaeton with Samuel Underwood.

"Oh! Major Reynolds!" Mary cried out happily. She jumped from the carriage, ignoring Samuel's attempt to help her down. Mary ran up the steps, skirts in hand. "I have heard so much about you! An honor. I'm Mary. Of course, Jane has told you all about me. You will be coming to the ball? Oh you must! I will not let you say no. Jane have you convinced him?"

"Calm yourself, Mary," Jane laughed. "He will be in attendance, though I have demanded all of his dances to myself."

"Not fair!" Mary gasped.

"Indeed, I was quite coerced into acceptance and I dare not defy her now," Reynolds jokes tensely. He gave a bow to her. "A pleasure, Miss Alnor."

"The pleasure is mine. Won't you join us? We're taking a jaunt into town. Jane, I saw the most amazing gloves yesterday. I just convinced my father to let me buy them. If I can't, we'll, if they're gone I mean, oh Major Reynolds I might just die."

"It would be a tragedy," he agreed dryly. Jane gently took his arm to quiet him. It would do no good if he insulted her friends. Luckily Mary was not one to detect sarcasm when put forth so dryly. Her touch seemed to keep him at bay and she let her hand graze his. Jane enjoyed the envious glare she received from Mary-Ellen. Mary-Ellen was a pretty girl, though no one would call her beautiful, and spent much of her time boasting her own marvelous attributes to make herself feel better. More often than not, Jane tried to ignore her, but her quips about Jane's height often got to her, and she was happy in that moment to have the handsome Major Reynolds on her arm.

"And Major Reynolds. That there is Miss Mary-Ellen. Here you have Edward Hayden. George Stewart. That there is Samuel Underwood."

Edward Hayden and George Stewart were cousins, and somehow, claimed to be distantly related to the Whitmores, though the Whitmore family did not recognize this claim. They had modest estates and would make some girls of the middle class very happy one day. Mary Alnor, Jane Whitmore, and even Mary-Ellen Worths were not women they were even to consider, though Jane was certain Mary-Ellen and Edward had engaged in behavior one did not speak of in polite conversation. Samuel Underwood, a well-built man of middling height with blond hair a bit too thin on the top of his head, even at the age of twenty five, was a man of some means, though neither Mary nor Jane had much desire for him. He refused to pursue one or the other and split his time between both girls. A fact both were well aware of and neither appreciated.

"Gentlemen. Miss Mary-Ellen," Major Reynolds greeted.

They all gave their greetings.

"I promise to return no later than three so we may keep our appointment?" she said to him, keeping her arm in his but turning to face him.

"That'd please me greatly."

"And I will tell you of all our magnificent adventures and near-death experiences we face along the way." Jane smiled at him.

Mary was hopping happily back toward the carriage. Jane slipped her arm from his and moved to stand directly in front of him. She took hold of the Majors lapels and tugged gently. She lifted her eyebrows. Drawing them together she pulled on a little pout and added softly, "Oh Major, if I don't get them I might just die."

He laughed softly and she let her hands slide down his coat. She gave him a grin of her own as she left him on the front steps.

"Do not drive too quickly, Mr. Underwood. I'd like that one returned in a single piece."

"I will obey you, Mighty Major, hero of our glorious Empire!" He cried in good fun, standing and lifting his hat into the air.

"Here! Here!" Edward Hayden cried.

Reynolds raised a hand. He did not seem all that amused.

"Ta-ta!" Mary called. Jane waved her hat as the carriage pulled away.

"God speed in your mission, Jane," he spoke just loud enough for her to hear but he did not yell. "See to it Miss Alnor secures her prize."

Jane just smiled and waved her hat with broader strokes of her arm.

When she returned from her rather fun outing in town just after two thirty, she had a little box in her hand and a happy smile on her face. She had mentioned to George multiple times that she absolutely needed to be home before three. It lead to a thorough investigation by her friends of her current relationship with the handsomer Major Reynolds. Mary, with a confident air of superiority pretended to know far more about their relationship than she did, but Jane knew better than to correct her in front of their friends.

She'd found the little gift at a shop she often went into to resupply her stationary. She put the purchase on her father's credit, positive he would accept the extra expense once he knew its purpose.

She hurried up the stairs but slowed her pace in the hallway. The Major's door was left ajar and she could hear voices inside.

"It's not possible. You can tell him I said as much," Reynolds said. It was Boswell's voice that responded.

"It's the only route that will get the shipment there in the allotted time. The fighting is continuing. It is growing at an alarming rate. I did as you asked. I rode these roads myself. They're impassable –"

"Did you speak to our loyal colonial brethren –"

"They can  _not_  be trusted."

"They must!" Reynolds barked with alarming anger. Jane jumped and squeezed the little box to her chest. He slammed a fist down on the desk hard. "They know the roads. We don't. Go and speak to them."

"With all due respect, Major, General Clinton – "

"Has his hands full with the city and knows nothing of the back roads of a backwater colony like New Jersey. The  _only_ thing anyone in London cares about that godforsaken excuse for a colony is Philidelphia. And that we have. Now. Go speak to our loyalist Militia leaders. Let them guide you."

"I will obey the order but I'd like to make a formal objection to it."

"Your objection is noted."

"It's simply that –"

"You are dismissed, Captain."

Boswell left the room and she began to walk again. She smiled brightly at him, heart rate thundering.

"Captain Boswell. It is so good to see you've returned!"

"Alas, I must depart again!" He lamented, not breaking stride but smiling happily. They both turned as they passed each other and walked backward to finish the brief encounter. "But to see your face before I must weather the storm will breathe the life back into me!"

She only laughed. She slipped inside Reynolds open door.

"He is a poet isn't he," she said sarcastically. Reynolds looked up. At first he seemed angered at the intrusion and then smiled when he realized it was her. "I saw the door was open. I thought I might stop in to let you know I had returned."

"Yes. Yes. I just have a few end of the day reports to finish and then I'll be ready."

"May I present you with my gift to you first?" she asked.

"Oh. Yes. That was quite unnecessary." He leaned back in his chair, dropping his pen onto the desk with a soft thud.

"It is nothing spectacular. Not a flower from Mary-land or a book from London," she smiled. She came to stand right in front of his desk. "And it is my father's money that bought it."

She put the wooden box on the table. It was good quality Mahogany. Heavy and well made. On top was an oval gold plaque with the engraving,  _New York – 1778_

"I thought - to remember your time here," she smiled.

"This was very thoughtful," he mused and slowly opened the box. Inside was quality paper, the same heading on top of every page.

"It was included with the box. I thought maybe for your personal letters, or practicing your map making."

"I am very touched by this," he said as though he was commenting on the color of the sky. But when he turned to look at her she knew the sentiment was real. He smiled down at the box again and nodded. "Very touched."

He ran his hand over the plaque reverently. A small smile settled on his face. He paused his examination and looked at her again with unsettling scrutiny. He had one of the most intense gazes she had ever seen.

"I must ask you something. It has been in my thoughts all day. Since this morning, I've been unable to think of anything else."

"Yes?" she asked. Her heart was pounding. She could hardly hear him. She was convinced he'd discovered her secret. He was about to tell her father, have her arrested, hang her parents, burn down their home. It was the longest few seconds of her life.

He asked her slowly and grimly, "is Miss Mary Alnor, at this very moment, indeed still living?"

The laugh that escaped Jane was of the most genuine sort and relieve flooded through her like smooth whiskey.

"Oh, she is living and then some," Jane assured him. He did not laugh but he did let a smile touch his lips. He looked down at the box again.

"Thank you for this. Very much."

She waited shyly and nodded, wringing her hands in front of her.

"Well, I have distracted you long enough. I will meet you at three."

She was surprised when he stopped her retreat by grabbing onto her wrist. It was a bit frightening initially, but the hold was gentle and merely a means of preventing her escape so he could add, "I may be just a few minutes late, but only just. Wait for me in the drawing room?"

"The Library? In the alcove?"

"Yes. I will come find you there. Bring your maps," he said and released her. "We can look over them."

"Yes!" She called with excitement. "Yes, yes, I'll go get them," she added, hurrying from the room. She turned in the doorway. "Would you like the door shut?"

"Please."

She closed the door softly behind her and then let the smile drop from her face.

 _He would kill your cousins in a heartbeat_ , she reminded herself. She smoothed out her skirts.  _He's an agent for the crown. He fights a war to keep you and thousands of others oppressed_.  _And he believes in it._

She collected her maps and went down into the library. She realized how poorly drawn they were, and how embarrassing they would be to show him after just a few moments of examination but just as she made the decision to discard them and make the claim she was unable to locate them, she heard the sound of his boots on the wood floor. He walked through the little library with steady steps. He was on her before she could decide what to do. She slapped her hands down on top of them protectively. He paused, eyebrows raising.

"They are too poorly done. It's humiliating."

He untucked a folder from beneath his arm.

"I am certain it is not."

He placed the folder down and reached for her drawings. He chuckled as she tried to keep them from him and after saying through a laugh, "Will you just stop?" he got hold of some paper and began to examine them.

"You have a steady hand," he complimented. "If you had proper training you'd be quite good. This is Whitmore House? And this the Alnor estate?"

"It is," she answered. He nodded.

"You see. I could spot it by sight. That is good," he reassured her and put them down. He retrieved the extra chair and sat down beside her.

"Here, I drew this today," he said. He plucked the top piece of parchment. _"_ This is where Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York meet."

"You rode this?" She asked. He chuckled.

"Oh, no. Some of it. I used other maps, military maps, recovered rebel maps, maps that were verified of course, and I spoke to some militia leaders in each colony."

"If I can be honest with you, Sir, I overheard some of your conversation with Boswell."

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

"It's incredibly frustrating when you're the only person that will see reason," he asserted.

"Your modesty is unparalleled," she teased.

"But it is true," he said passionately. "These militias loyal to the Crown, they're brutal, they rarely conduct themselves under the proper rules of warfare. But they are fiercely loyal. Are you aware, the Crown could add an additional third of its fighting size in the colonies if it employed the militias?"

"Why doesn't it?" She asked.

"Same reasons given in the papers. Colonists cannot be trusted. Not a single one. It's a difficult situation we find ourselves in. Clinton refuses to trust the loyal militias, despite them absolutely  _imploring_ him to accept their help. Yet, we've direct instructions, as we should, to be gentle. This isn't a place we've come to conquer but bring back into the loving bosom of the Empire. You cannot win heart and minds through decimation. Yet, we say to those still loyal 'we don't trust you.' An entire group of maybe one hundred men went to Mount Holly just last week asking to join the fight. Their guns were confiscated, and they were sent home.  _One hundred men._ That's an entire caravan."

"Amazing," she muttered.

"Well. They won't see reason. I cannot ask them to fight for me, but I ask them to scout the area for me, report back to me. I verify of course. I'm not a fool. But it saves time."

He looked over the map.

"I don't have a single doubt this map is not accurate," he said, jabbing the table with his finger.

"If only you were made general," she smiled. "The war would be won already."

He blushed.

"I don't think that. I just feel we aren't utilizing our resources in an intelligent manner. Clinton is scared. He's too timid. Washington. The man's a genius."

She looked at him in surprise.

"You think so?"

"Well. Yes. He's a traitor. I'll be happy when he's dead. But he's proven a worthy general." He added nonchalantly and with a small shrug, "despite his larger blunders."

"Father does not let me read about the war. I think he's afraid I might foster dangerous political beliefs if I do."

"Not if you read a good loyalist paper."

"I made the mistake of asking for access to both. Simply to read you see. I'm curious. That shut down talk of any sort of papers entering the house."

"You know the arguments both sides make. I can't see how reading a paper would alter your opinion. From my experiences with you, you're not a weak minded person."

"Why thank you," she said. He considered a few moments.

"If it would please you... I am in possession of papers. Loyal and rebel alike, from Massachusetts, New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania. I could let you read them..."

Her eyes and mouth widened and she sat up in her chair. She took on a deep breath and he raised his finger.

"If you promise not to tell your father –"

"I won't!"

" – and you promise not to tell your friends."

"I promise, I promise," she vowed.

"Then perhaps, this coming Sunday, if weather permits, we could go for a walk, I'll smuggle them from the house, and you can read them."

"Oh, that would simply wonderful. I try to stay informed but father makes it so difficult. I haven't read any newspaper since Alex and Hank left."

She knew it was a mistake before it even left her lips, but he simply nodded firmly.

"Your cousins. Your father told me. I am sorry. I've been told you were close to them."

She pinched her lips together and her eyes hardened.

"They're traitors."

"Love is an odd thing. You're mind might know they commit evil acts, but the heart cannot simply be retrained with a flick of a pen," Reynolds answered. Before she could reflect on the surprisingly enlightened opinion coming from the good Major, he added, "Grab a clean sheet of paper. Show me how you draw. Copy this."

She began and he watched. He rested an arm over the back of her chair, but she leaned forward as she drew and so he was not all that close to her. After a few minutes of silence he asked her, "May I ask you a question?"

"You just did," she responded. He ignored her.

"That... other sketchbook..." she paused her drawing. Her cheeks flushed and her ears grew hot. "How did you come about those drawings... that is – the inspiration. Surely not... personal experience –"

She whipped her head around. Her brow creased at the insult and she asked him rather harshly, "what kind of girl do you think I am, Major?"

They were rather close now.

"No, I... I don't think that," he answered. "I'm simply curious."

"If you must know," she said, looking back at her map. "I read quite often."

"I see."

"And it was a private notebook you had no right to open."

"It was in my room."

She whipped her head around again to find him smiling at her. She pinched her lips and lifted her jaw.

"This is not... not something we should discuss," she faltered and looked back at the map. Her cheeks were flushed a bright red and it extended down her throat and over her breasts.

She'd read all the books she wasn't supposed to. She knew far more about carnal acts than perhaps many wives with many children did, yet never once did she meet someone she would ever consider those acts with. Once or twice, as younger children, she and Jonathan had shared a kiss or two. When her father felt they were too close for their age and station, he sent Jonathan away for a year to learn management skills with her mother's family in Maryland. When Jonathan came back it was with a stern reminder that Jane was a lady, he was a poor man with nothing, and as long as he remembered that, he'd be in charge of the stables with a good pay and rent-free living quarters for he, his mother and his sister. By the time he had returned, Jane had fallen in love and had her heart broken by Hugh Raleigh and nothing ever came of their timid exploration. Since then, her prospects had been either too boring or too repellent to consider anything physical.

She turned her head and looked back at Major Reynolds. His dark eyes shifted up from the map and back to hers. Truly, the color of his coat was the only thing repellent about him. He was like a hero right out of the stories.

Tall and lean, though not lanky as many with comparable height often appeared. He had a Grecian profile. Perhaps his nose was too large, but she thought it fit perfectly in between his broad cheekbones. His jaw was square, though not that uncomfortable box she'd seen on many a brute. He had the shadow of a beard, though his face was clean shaven, and she could see the powder he used to help cover it on his temple. And he smelled good. Like mint leaves and shaving soap. If it came down to it, she didn't think it would be such a chore.

"Jane, I..." with the arm still draped over the back of her chair, bicep touching her shoulder, he lifted his hand to put a curl back into place. "I am fond of you."

"I'm fond of you too," she said, looking down shyly as she said it.

"I... I have to tell you something."

She looked back up at him and he shifted closer.

"You see, I - "

"What is this!"

Both whipped their heads around. At the sight of her short plump father, Reynolds jumped from his chair, knocking it over in the process, and took a considerable step back from her. Jane was more insulted than embarrassed.

"Were you spying on us?" she accused harshly.

"Mr. Whitmore, I – "

"Well  _I_ , Major Reynolds,  _I_  tell you I've never seen such brazen behavior between two young people before in my life."

"Yes, Sir, I apologize. We –"

"I bet you've never snuck up on them before either," Jane muttered and looked back at her maps.

"Jane Mary Whitmore, you go upstairs this instant!"

She whipped around and yelled, "Papa!"

"Now! I need a word with the Major here."

"But, Papa, we – !"

"Jane," Reynolds said gently but sternly. She looked at him. He motioned with his head for her to leave the room without further protest. She sighed and gathered her things angrily. She grabbed at different papers. She marched passed her father, arms full, and snapped, "I'm not a child."

Her father did not start discussing anything with Major until she was out of the room, but Jane didn't mind. She just had to try and keep the smile off her face. She could only pray handsome Major Reynolds would not notice he was missing the map key now nestled securely in the mess of papers in her arms.


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight:

Jane did not go to dinner that night and her father did not protest. He came in to give her the same lecture he reportedly gave Major Reynolds. He was pleased they were so fond of one another, but they needed to remember themselves. She was a lady and needed to conduct herself appropriately. He was a gentleman and was expected to do the same, no matter his rank. The Major wouldn't continue courting her if she lead him to believe she was not a woman of high moral character. Jane protested heartily the appointment of a chaperone, but her father had made up his mind.

She stayed in her room, carefully copying the key that night. Every little noise she alerted to, ready for him to come running in to arrest her. The next morning, she collected his original key, held it close to her, and walked to his room. Her heart beat hard and palms were sweaty but she did not allow herself to think. She only acted. The door was closed but she slipped inside and gently shut the door behind her.

He looked up from his desk. He scolded her but he did not seem displeased to see her.

"Jane, if your father found you here right now..."

"I won't stay but a minute," she promised. "I only wanted to return this to you. I was going through my papers and found it in the jumble."

"Ah. Yes," he said, accepting it. "I figured it had gotten lost in the shuffle. I was going to come by your door last night but thought that would be a terrible error in judgement on my part. Thank you."

"My father may have flayed you alive," she replied with a smile. She stood by the desk and looked rather openly and his papers. He did not seem to mind.

"Your father told me that we would be bringing Miss ...Edmonds, on our outings from now on."

She looked up to stare at him.

"Miss Edmonds?" she asked. He picked up a small piece of paper.

"It is the name I was given."

"That won't do," she said. "That won't do at all."

"I'm sorry?"

"I will speak to mother," she said.

"Maybe its best we not be alone," he offered. She examined him and waited for an explanation. "I only mean, it will keep us honest. Will keep  _me_  honest. I'm not suggesting you'd ever act improperly."

"I'll at least change the chaperone, and a constant chaperone is not necessary. Perhaps when we're alone in the library, but not in the sitting or drawing rooms. Or walks in the gardens?"

"I have no desire to anger him."

"You had no fear dictating to him when you first arrived," she pointed out with a tiny smile.

"That was before I had designs on his daughter," he answered dryly. "Certain things I cannot dictate to him."

"Well, if you want all of our interactions chaperoned, I'll keep my protests to myself," she said. "I'll leave you to work, Major."

He got up from his seat and grabbed her wrist. He tugged her back with a smile.

"I don't  _want_ a chaperone."

She smiled back.

"Then let me talk to my mother," she said. He considered.

"As long as it is clear it is coming from you. I don't want your father thinking I'm trying to maneuver behind the scenes."

"I'm not easily manipulated," she reminded him.

"I know. I like that about you. Still, if you are as fond of me as you say, your father may think I am using that sentiment to..."

"Commit ungodly acts?" she teased. He blushed.

"Really, Miss Whitmore."

"Not Jane any longer?"

"Three o'clock then, Jane?" he asked curtly, but with a smile beneath the surface of his stony face. "In the drawing room?"

"I will be there," she conceded. "Should I bring my maps?"

"Please," he answered. He released her wrist. She had not realized he had still been holding it. "Do not let yourself be seen," he cautioned and she motioned him to the door.

"You must step out to see if it is clear."

He obeyed. He waited a moment and then motioned for her to leave the room.

"Three o'clock," he reminded her. She smiled shyly and returned to her room. She spent the afternoon preparing for their next appointment and made a brief stop in to speak with her mother about her father's meddling in her courtship. How unfair it was, how terrible it would be to have a constant chaperone. The Major will never fancy me now. I'll never catch his eye. It is so boring speaking with a chaperone in the room. You never say what you want to say. You can't possibly really get to know another person with another person monitoring your conversation. Usually she got everything she wanted when she went to her mother, so she was surprised when her father stepped into the room ten minutes before three o'clock and Jane stared at him.

"What are you doing?" she asked him when he sat down happily and made no move to leave or speak.

"I am going to socialize with Major Reynolds." He looked pleased. Red cheeked, he had a nick on his chin from shaving earlier. He had elected to do it himself as not to bother George. George lamented he had almost killed himself in the pursuit and begged her father not to ever try such a foolish thing again.

"...why?" she asked him.

"He is a distinguished guest. Remember, Jane darling, I am very pleased you and the Major get on so well. Very pleased. But you are my only daughter –"

"Papa," she sighed in annoyed embarrassment.

"It will be a pleasant afternoon," he smiled. He had been trying to get on better terms with the Major since he had arrived at Whitmore House. Now he had a captive audience.

"Father, how will we come to know one another with you in the room?"

"Almost all of my earliest interactions with your mother had your grandpapa Folkes in the room with us."

She made to protest but he continued.

"And if I am to let you continue on unchaperoned, in locations of my choosing, Jane, my choosing, then I want to know him better."

She smiled brightly at that,"Did you talk to Mama?"

"I did. You two... alone in the alcove, and he so close, truly Jane, I've never seen you so taken with a man before. Not since you came out."

"I – "

Reynolds came around the corner and it was clear he had heard what was said by the small smile on his face.

"Mr. Whitmore," he nodded to him in greeting.

"'Major," he greeted and stood. The two shook his hands.

"Good of you to join us." Reynolds put a tight smile on his lips.

"We had not finished our discussion on seeding techniques. You had some very curious insights."

"I uh... studied a short while in Ireland," he explained, scratching his forehead with a single long finger and taking his seat opposite Jane. He crossed a leg and leaned against the arm of the chair. He appeared quite relaxed.

"You studied? In  _Ireland_?" Jane asked, not quite believing that. He looked at her a moment and reflected before answering.

"Not in a proper school. I worked for, with, oversaw, a farmer on one of my father's friend's estates."

"Do you know many Irish landlords?" Jane asked. Her father waved his hand.

"This is not important information right now, Jane."

"I think the current political and social status of Ireland is very important information –"

"The Major does not want to be troubled with perceived social inequalities in Ireland, Jane, leave the man be. The seeding, sir, what you were saying last night?"

John looked uncomfortable a moment, unsure if he should come to her defense or side with her father. He chose the safest route and sided with her father, beginning simply.

"Well, in Ireland with the land as it is..."

Jane listened to him explain the details of farming in Ireland. It was a conversation she might have found boring if it was not in such amazing at the detail he used. He was speaking with the authority of a man who knew what he was talking about, and knew it first hand, and why a man like him would know so much about planting, she couldn't fathom.

Her father asked her quite transparently about the size of his father's estates. The Major glanced at her before answering and she lowered her eyes in embarrassment. What terribly bad form her father had sometimes. Usually, when they were amongst friends, she found it endearing. Other times, and it seemed it was happening much more frequently, she was quite embarrassed by it.

He explained the estates in the Indies, though admitted he had never been there. Three estates in total. One in Barbados, two in Jamaica. Sugarcane and coffee, with one estate, he could not remember which, growing some indigo.

"Sugarcane is a rather horrific crop to harvest, I've been told," Jane mused. She could not help herself.

"It is," he agreed grimly.

"How many slaves do you own?" she asked.

"Jane," her father scolded, but Major Reynolds answered anyway. Her father found the practice abhorrent and had instill that in her since the time she was a little girl, but his opposition was religiously based and very private. When he had rich friends that benefited from the practice, he'd rather not speak on it at all.

"My  _father_ owns a few hundred. I do not know their exact number. Sugarcane season is about six months a year. One needs a large staff to maintain the demand."

"I read a story in the paper, when I was still allowed a newspaper with breakfast, that a black slave in Bermuda had her hands ground off after being sucked into one of the machines."

"It would not surprise me," he answered.

"And one man, skimming off the top of the boiling furnace, fell in, and was boiled alive."

"The death would have been rather instant, but again, I do not doubt it."

"And the workers in the fields, actually harvesting the crop. I have heard –"

"Jane! Is this how you torment the Major when you are alone?"

"It is," he said seriously, though gave her a quick glance signifying he was teasing, "Though I do enjoy her torment, Mr. Whitmore. Very few are willing to challenge me with such little regard to my station or rank as she does."

He returned the smile she gave him.

"Well I... I suppose if you tolerate it..."

"I do," he answered. "Anyway, I prefer the military life to farming."

"Will you sell your estates and free your slaves when you inherent?" she asked. He looked at her and very simply said, "it is not mine to give away."

"Quite right. He has his family name to think about," her father said grimly. "A gentleman has a duty to his ancestors, his family, and his legacy. Isn't that right, Major?"

"Quite right," he replied.

"What have you there?"

"Oh, here? Just some of my more recent maps, a few military maps. Jane and I share a common hobby."

"Mine is a hobby," Jane said and got to her feet. She glides across the room and picked up the folder he brought her. "Yours is a profession."

She sat down in the chair directly beside him and flipped through it.

"A rather odd hobby for a young lady, but Jane has never been the common sort," her father said affectionately. Jane glanced up with a small smile. Her father slapped his knees.

"Well, I will be in my office. You two may remain here, but servants will be in and out mind."

"Yes sir," Reynolds said, standing. He waited until her father was out of the room before sitting back down. He scooted his chair a bit closer to her.

"You start in the center and work yourself out, it can leave proportions imperfect. Landmarks first, then main roads, bodies of water, then the smaller landmarks. It doesn't box you in," he explained.

"I thought if I started at a fixed point and moved out it would help with proportions," she explained.

"No, you know the landmarks. Trust yourself and just put them down."

They spent the rest of the time until dinner drawing maps and talking about random insignificant topics. She brought up how she was amazed he had never been to any of the estates in the West Indies, but he did not seem interested in discussing it.

"I hope I did not offend you earlier," she said as they walked down the hall to dinner. "With my talk of slavery." She lied, "I really don't think badly of you at all for it."

"You did not offend me," he smiled.

"You are certain?" she asked.

"I promise," he said. He pulled her chair out himself and made sure she took her seat in comfort. She smiled at him as he sat down.

Captain Boswell joined them at dinner. He looked tired but he had not lost any of his lovely charm. She listened to him with a little smile, but she spent most of her meal watching the Major eat. He was aware of her gaze and she was aware of that awareness. He would glance at her when Boswell said something he found particularly annoying. She'd let herself giggle softly and then return to the conversation. A few times, she would look over at him and find him looking at her. He'd look down immediately and examined his food closely.

After dinner he chose to remain with them in the drawing room. He sat down in a chair beside Jane's and spoke with her softly. He didn't seem to like socializing in front of Boswell, Green, Ainsworth or Darling.

"Instead of your morning ride tomorrow, I thought perhaps we might walk the grounds?" he asked her as he examined his nails. "If you wouldn't mind."

"I'd love to. I think perhaps I can convince mother to let us go alone, since we'll be outdoors."

"And I will smuggle some newspaper clippings out for you," he offered with a smile. "I just received a new one from Boston.  _Son's of Liberty,_ he scoffed. He shook his head in disgust. Her heart raced. She glanced at her father. He was speaking with Ainsworth but keeping a close eye on them in the corner.

"Do you collect them?" she asked.

"No. I think it's important to know what the enemy is thinking. And some of these clippings. Oh Jane. It will enrage you to read them. It will  _enrage_ you. Treasonous anarchists. Bloody, bloody traitors."

She watched him closely. He regained control of himself almost immediately but she had seen the glimmer of passion in him. He laughed in mild embarrassment and she swallowed down her anger thickly.

"Forgive me."

"No. No. You ought to show your feelings more often."

"I've always been taught not to discuss politics with women," he admitted. She pressed her lips together. "You are very different than most women though."

"If you knew how many times a man has said that to me in my life," she put a smile back on his face. She glanced over his coat. Red and handsome. Her stomach swirled with distaste for him. Even the little smile on his face, the gentle twinkling in his gaze. That distaste momentarily faded when he looked up and spoke very genuinely to her,

"No. I mean it. Quite sincerely. I never say what I don't mean."

"I believe that," she smiled.

"Major, may we steal you away and bring you into what is most certainly a far more boring conversation?" Captain Green asked.

"I believe you will do so whether I grant permission or not," he answered. He shifted in his seat and glanced to Jane with an annoyed grimace that he probably thought could pass for a smile. They began to talk about an English politician. Jane observed him closely.

She wondered what it might be like to kiss him. She wondered if she would need to. It certainly seemed to her that had her father not discovered them, he would have tried. He was after all, as everyone felt the need to constantly remind her, a soldier. Despite his apparent disgust for Boswell's constant patronage of the cleaner brothels in the colonies, she doubted if any man was truly above fortification. If her readying was any indication, men had a very singular view of copulation.

She gave him a quick side glance. Might he have hair on his chest? Perhaps just above his naval. He did not strike her as a hairy man, though he clearly could grow a marvelous beard, judging by the shade that touched his face around 2 o'clock every day.

He was in fine shape. She had no concerns about his physical form, though she did think he was probably quite pale. In the summers, before she was told she could no longer go down to the swimming hole with her cousins, she would often note the differences between her cousins and the poorer boys amongst their friends.

Her cousins were thin but pale, with no defined muscles beneath their pasty upper bodies. Their faces appeared on the wrong bodies. Strange brown dots among creamy skin. Jonathan, Henry. Their skin was bronzed from long days shirtless in the sun, bodies well defined, etched somewhat like Greek statues, though perhaps their middles were not so well perfected.

Jonathan's arms, she could remember fondly, we're quite large well before she ever thought to look at the masculine bodies that would strip down with her. She wondered what handsome Major Reynolds, hero and fierce defender of their benevolent and loving empire might look like stripped of his handsome uniform.

He looked strong. She doubted he was well defined. She doubted he was anything but pasty white. Still, she could not help but feel a curious flutter in her stomach when she thought of what he may look like beneath all of his clothing.

"Jane."

Her head snapped up. Reynolds was looking at her. She blushed but was thankful that he had removed himself from his conversation and only he had noticed her lost in her thoughts.

"I said I think I might retire," he repeated.

"Oh yes," she said. "Me as well."

They rose and said their good nights. Walking up the steps, Jane looked at him again. He did not seem to notice her open examination of him or, if he did, made no sign of it.

"What time will we walk tomorrow?" she asked.

"After breakfast? Half past ten?"

"I will meet you on the drawing room."

"You could breakfast with me," he offered.

"I know you like to have peace and quiet during your breakfast. You needn't change that for me."

"I would like to. I enjoy your conversation."

"A great compliment," she grinned as they stopped by her door. She tilted her head and gave a crossed her arms. Not the most ladylike posture in the world, but certainly flirtatious. "I will breakfast with you."

"Wonderful. And I will bring with me some," he glanced over her shoulder. "Poetry."

"Poetry? I thought – "

"Really Miss Timms, the door needs no more dusting," he said with a harsh and authoritative voice. Jenny's eyes widened and she slipped into the closet.

"My father sent her up," she said knowingly.

"Yes, I'm aware. He might choose a subtler spy. I wish all spies were so transparent." He cocked his head and smiled. "Well, perhaps not ours."

"Do you know many spies?" she asked.

"I might," he teased. "If I do they do their job quite well."

"No necessarily," she disagreed. "A spy's identity may be unknown, that does not mean that get anything of value."

"True," he conceded. Before he could voice his next thought he looked up, stared a moment, and then let out a little laugh. It was a quick breath and he pressed his hand to his face, shaking his head side to side.

She turned around to find Jenny's curious, pale face peeking out from the ajar closet door, eyes wide.

"Jenny, might you even try?" Jane asked. The girl ducked back in quickly.

"I must go now. I need to write to General Clinton."

"What for?" she asked with excited. He lifted his brow.

"Why, so he might recruit her for the cause," he answered, holding a hand out toward Jenny. Jane wrapped her hands around his outstretched palm and lowered it with a giggle.

"Do not be cruel," she scolded.

"But I must, we cannot hope to win the war without her aid," he continued the joke but was smiling now. His hand closed around hers. She stepped forward coyly. He looked like he was about to kiss her. He glanced up once more before slowly withdrawing his hand from hers. As he did, he trailed his thumb along the back of her hand. "Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow," she agreed. "Do not forget the poetry."

He chuckled.

"I won't. Sleep well," he bid her goodnight. She slipped into her room with a smile. When she plopped down in her chair to wait for Rebecca, the smiled dropped from her face.

* * *

He was reading a letter when she stepped into the breakfast room. A soldier stood by his side at attention. Major Reynolds had a severe frown on his face as she read. She hesitated, unsure if she should leave, but he instructed militarily, "Sit down, Jane."

She watched him read in silence. He changed when he was working. Gone was the charming suitor and in his place sat Major Reynolds, grim, austere, and fiercely devoted to the crown.

She wanted to reach out to him and  _explain_ it to him. How wrong it was to be treated so unfairly by one's government. To have taxes imposed, General warrants issued, and property seized all by the flick of a pen by those thousands of miles across an ocean. Surely, he'd see if she just explained it to him.

"Forgive me, Jane," he said and snapped his fingers. The soldier retrieved a stationary box. Reynolds began to write out a response. He folded and sealed the letter before handing it to the soldier. "As fast as you can."

"Major," he said and hurried from the room. Intensely curious, she tried to keep herself light as she asked him, "what was that about?"

"Not important," he said with an uncomfortable smile.

"Looked important," she disagreed.

"Well, yes it is," he conceded with a laugh. He pushed his fingers up beneath his wig and scratched his scalp. "I have to move a shipment I was not expecting to move," he explained. "Boring actually, but important. Good morning. I trust you slept well?"

"Very well. Yourself?"

"A bit restless. I had a nightmare actually," he laughed but she thought he looked a little shaken. "I dreamt someone came into my room and strangled me till dead."

"My god," she answered in real horror.

"Yes, it was unsettling," he laughed. "My brothers used to do it when I was younger. Playful teasing."

"Your brothers strangled you in your sleep?" she asked, eyes widened with unconcealed disgust.

"A saying I never understood. 'Strangled in one's sleep.' A person always wakes up. And no, not strangled. They'd pop in late, cover my face with a pillow and hit me in the stomach a few times for good measure."

"That's horrible!"

"It was," he agreed. He laughed again. He seemed a bit unhinged at the moment. He raised his glass of water to his lips and downed the whole thing. He called for more and began to eat. He motioned for her to do the same but she only watched him.

"John?" she asked. He looked up sharply, eyebrows lifted.

"Are you alright?" she asked. He lifted and then lowered his utensils. He looked at his plate with an open mouth. She could see him thinking.

"I received disturbing news in that letter," he said. "For the time being, I would really rather not say more on the subject."

She considered him a moment and then nodded slowly.

"Thank you," he said. "It's a beautiful day. A bit too warm for my liking but I think lovely for a walk."

"It amazes me that someone who spent so long in India and the West Indies could dislike the heat so much."

"My time in the West Indies was short lived," he reminded her. "And I had quite a fever for most of it."

"Malaria?" she asked.

"They say so, though I've had no recurring bouts since and it has been two years. I was moved when I was promoted," he said. He mumbled, "Thank heavens."

"I hope you stay in New York a while."

"I have the choice of lodging. As long as they don't need me down south, I will be permitted to stay here."

She smiled at him. He returned the smile but then looked down at his plate. The steeliness returned to his gaze. Obvious unease.

"Major?"

"Forgive me." He shook his head thoughtfully.

"Let's walk," she said, getting to her feet. He looked up in surprise. She reached out and took his hand. He let her guide him to his feet.

"You need fresh air to clear your head. You work too much."

"I feel as though I have hardly been working at all recently," he said. He put his hat on his head. "You're a horrendous distraction."

"You really are a charmer, Major Reynolds," she teased.

"I may not be charming but I am honest," he replied.

She tied her own hat onto her head. It was straw, flat, with a white ribbon she tied beneath her chin. Even so she retrieved her parasol before they exited the home.

They walked down the main drive, shielded from the sun. He asked her what he might expect from the Alnor ball and she explained in some detail. By the time she was finished, they had stepped out from beneath the canopy of trees and were greeted by the open stretch of farm land her father owned. Before them now was the cattle field.

He reached into his inner pocket and retrieved a stack of newspaper clippings. He reached into his other pocket and did the same. Her eyes widened and she all but hopped in excitement.

"Oh, Major! I am so excited!" she cried.

"Truly foul stuff, Jane. Do not whip yourself up with it," he cautioned and handed over on clipping. "That is from the  _New York Journal."_

She read as he went through the others. The read the pages, righteous indignation and hatred burning proudly in her chest as she read of some of the offenses the British had committed in her beloved colony.

"The vile beast without any understanding of the capability of man to be a moral being?" he asked, jabbing at an underlined passage with a finger. He added dryly, "Tis I."

Her lips parted.

"No," she said in disbelief. "I might believe Boswell but not you."

He gave a sideways smirk.

"It is me," he said again.

"It says you... you massacred twenty men?" She asked. She turned her gaze upward, a troubling frown on her face. He scoffed.

"I oversaw a skirmish that saw twenty rebels dead," he answered. "I  _massacred_ no one."

She pressed her lips together. He handed her another. " _The Boston Gazette."_

She read them through. She didn't get a whole lot more information than she already knew. Major events were talked about freely by servants and especially with the officers now in the house, we're common knowledge, but the more detailed explanation of the British offenses escaped her until now.

"My father refuses to let me read the paper. Any paper. Sometimes I'll sneak a Tory paper out of the Alnor's home but I can never..." she slowed to finish reading the article.

"It was probably sensible, what with your cousins."

Her head snapped up and she gave him a sharp look.

"Your father told me of them in some detail. He said you were quite close with them when they left and that... that you had demonstrated certain sympathies toward the rebel cause."

"As you've said before, Sir, I love my cousins. That is as far as my sympathies for  _rebels_  extend," she said sharply. She slapped the paper clippings into his chest and moved ahead with a huff and long, brisk strides back toward the house.

"I did not mean to offend you - "

"Then perhaps accusations of holding treasonous tendencies should have been withheld from discussion," she snapped.

"Wait, wait," he called. He caught her by the wrist. "Please believe me, Jane, if I believed you harbored treasonous thoughts the last thing I would do is supply you with these clippings."

He held them up.

"I only meant I understood your father's concerns. I never meant to suggest I believed they were justified."

"It's a sensitive topic," she said. "When my cousins left. It caused so much strife. My aunt and uncle. I don't think they'll ever recover from the shame. It... it's shameful, Major, to know my cousins, with whom I share blood and name, could betray their King. When you speak of it like that I cannot help but feel I'm… I'm partly to blame.

"It is no reflection on you," he comforted. "None at all. I have a high opinion of you," he went on as if he were doing her a great favor, feeling this way toward her, "You are a good and loyal woman from a good and loyal family. That is clear for all to see. My deepest apologies if I have caused you pain."

Satisfied she'd laid any doubt he might have displayed to rest she nodded slowly and gave a sad smile.

"Please? Walk with me a bit longer?" he asked.

"I suppose," she said with that tiny sad smile turning a bit happier.

He smiled and handed her the entire stack of papers in his hands. She accepted the peace offering and unfolded another.

"Shall we sit awhile?" she asked when they came up upon Mr. Bergman's plot. She'd led them there on purpose. It was a beautiful spot. Up a small bend, overlooking the road and providing a view that stretched out over most of the Whitmore land, was a large oak tree that provided the perfect amount of shade on a warm day.

"Yes, that would be lovely."

They walked up the little hill and settled beneath the tree. He squinted off into the distance, pulling grass from the earth in clumps.

"Gage's barbarians," she mumbled. "I must say, whether justified or not, the prospect of a general warrant is somewhat terrifying."

"Necessary in the current climate," he said. She looked up at him but said nothing. She looked back down and continued to read.

"The fighting is not far from here," she noted in surprise.

"Fairly close," he agreed.

"Has Monsieur Lafayette been to New York?" She asked, trying to keep the hopeful lilt from her voice.

"Doubtful. He might have stepped foot in it, but he's been sniffing around Pennsylvania."

"Yes, it says, he and some Indians evaded capture just here. I will say this to you, Major Reynolds, there is no place for Hessians in these colonies," she said with some bite. "Those Germans act like packs of beasts, attacking loyal and rebel women alike."

"I agree they have less restraint, they fight for money not their country, and they have no tie to the people. Still, they are necessary."

"I don't like it," she said imperiously. He smiled softly. He looked back out over the fields. He leaned back and a small smile came to his face.

"It reminds me of home here," he said thoughtfully. "Back in England. There was a little spot that overlooked the village. My mother and I would sit for hours in good weather. It was at one time my favorite place to be in the world."

"Do you miss England?"

"Sometimes," he said. "It's always raining. Cloudy. I'm too melancholic to live my life there, I think."

"Yet you hate the heat."

"I got on quite well in Montreal. Despite all the Catholics..."

"Have you been to France?"

"Thank heavens no," he answered. "I cannot tolerate that many French people in once place."

Jane giggled.

"What I would not give to see France. Versailles, the Louvre? Oh goodness it would be absolutely magnificent."

"I've seen St. James Palace and Westminster," he offered. "And Buckingham House."

"Are they magnificent?"

"Well. Certainly not Versailles."

"Was the King present?" She asked him.

"I think he may have been in London at the time," he admitted begrudgingly.

"Can you imagine living in a palace like that?" she asked in awe.

"Certainly not," he answered. "I'd hardly know what to do with myself."

"I could not fathom seeing Versailles. The glorious artwork, the high ceilings,

Miles of galleries and hallways, full the brim with French nobility like in the stories. I hope I may one day meet a real French noble. I'd settle for a soldier even. Their coats are powder blue?"

"Some - you are quite friend of the French I see."

"Only the romance of it. The mystery. One grows bored of the same old thing."

"I see," he said and looked down at his waistcoat. She smiled softly and scooted closer. She removed her hat and laid it down on the papers so they would not fly away with the breeze.

"Are you jealous, Major Reynolds?" She teased.

"I could be no more jealous of a Frenchman than I am a woman," he answered, though his ears were red.

She put her hands on his as they continued to dig in the grass. He paused his movements to look at her.

"Not a soldier in the world is more dashing than you are," she said.

"Do not mock me," he said, grabbing at the grass again.

"I do not mock," she asserted. She examined him closely, lips parted. "John?"

"Mhmm?"

"The other day, in the library..." she paused and he looked up to meet her gaze. "Were you going to kiss me?"

His eyes dropped to her lips on impulse but darted back up almost immediately. His own lips parted. They were very close. She could smell the powder on his wig.

"Um... I..." he looked at her mouth again.

"You could," she offered softly. "If you wanted to..."

"You would... you would be agreeable to it?" He scooted a bit closer.

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I wasn't," she rushed out a breathy laugh and looked down shyly. His finger brushed her chin, drawing her gaze upward.

He leaned in and placed a soft kiss to her mouth. His lips were warm and soft. His face was a bit scratchy. The kiss was nice.

Not at all as terrible as she feared it might be. His breathes smelled like mint leaves. High Raleigh always used to suck on them to keep his breath fresh. John smelled like mint now. Mint, coffee, and soap.

He ended the kiss not long after it started. It was a simple pressing of the mouths, a chaste and tender kiss. He smiled and examined his palms before he looked over at her and laughed. She looked away coyly.

"Have you been kissed before, Jane?" he asked.

"No," she lied. His lips lifted and his eyes lit up with pleasure. She always thought it was strange men cared so much about such things. A woman might not expect a man to come to her pure, many women never even considered it when choosing a husband, so long as he did not have a reputation for debauchery. Men cared very much.

"Have you?" she asked and looked away. "Of course, you have," she said and ran her hand over the grass.

"I am a man of high moral character," he vowed earnestly. "I promise you, I've never done anything untoward."

She was unsure what that meant but would have been legitimately embarrassed to ask. She had absolutely no doubt he was not a man to rape, she was more than certain he did not abide prostitution. She was not so sure he was above fortification or the seduction of those easily swayed by good looks, money, and high status.

"I hope I did not offend you. I merely – "

"Oh no," he said. "No, no, I am very well pleased right now."

Indeed, he was smiling quite brightly. She felt a twinge of guilt. She'd rather he was a cruel seducer or a simple philanderer like Boswell. Despite her dislike for him and his views, the thought of fostering real affection only to ultimately betray and reject him, left her feeling oppressively lachrymose. He appeared earnest in his affection for her.

"I hope no spies saw us," he said. He looked out across the field but they appeared very much alone.

"I told my father this morning we would not be going for our walk until three o'clock. He has no idea we're out here alone," she explained. His head whipped around.

"Jane – "

"'Tis I that will be scolded, not you," she comforted.

"Tis I that will be blamed!" he responded. "It will reflect poorly on me if word gets round I'm seducing my host's young daughter."

"Indeed, you'll never be let into another home again. Then how will you collect your conquests."

"I have no conquests," he snapped angrily. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and looked out into the field. She collected her skirts and shifted so she could face him. She sat on her bottom, legs outstretched in front of her.

"I am only teasing you, John," she comforted. "You mustn't be so sensitive."

He looked up sharply and though there was no anger directed at her, he said with alert firmness, informing her gravely and with absolute certainty, "I am  _not_ sensitive. I am  _not._ "

"Of course, of course I... I didn't mean it like that. Please don't be cross with me," she pleaded rather subserviently. His gaze softened. Men loved pliable women. No matter how much he like to pretend he enjoyed her opinions and conversation, he wanted her to agree and obey, just like all men.

"No, it's only that... that I'm not sensitive."

"It would not be a bad thing if you were you know, but I certainly did not mean it to offend you so greatly. I think many men should feel things more deeply than they do. At the very least, feel free to express those feelings."

"That's for women to do not men," he answered and squinted into the sun. He tossed a handful of grass out in front of him. She pinched her lips together and considered.

"Would you be less cross if you kissed me again?" she asked. He looked up, tiny curve to his lips.

"Perhaps not," he said. He lifted his chin and took a breath. "Worth a try, I suppose."

She giggled and he leaned closer to her. She closed her eyes, ready to accept another kiss, hoping he might try a little more this time, but no kiss came. She felt him jump to his feet. She looked up in confused surprise and twisted her body to find what had alerted him.

She saw a carriage making its way down the road.

"Do you know that carriage?" he asked. She examined it more closely.

"No. Probably one of Papa's friends – wha – what are you doing?"

"We must return to the house," he said, scrambling to pick up the papers.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Please, Jane, just do as I say?" he asked. She fell silent and obeyed him. He put the papers into his coat and she fastened her hat back on. She practically had to run to keep up with his quick strides.

"Are you unwell?" she asked. "Has this to do with the letter you received this morning."

He cast her a smile.

"You're a bit too smart for your own good, do you know that?"

"Does it?" she asked again. He shook his head. She followed back to the house, breathing hard from the near sprint. The carriage was still in the drive, indicating it would be a short visit or they had only just pulled up to the front door. The Major was so bold as to actually pop his head inside.

"What on Earth. Major. Propriety," she scolded. She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him from the stranger's carriage.

He walked up the steps, skipping one with each step. He flung the front door open with little ceremony she was grateful the door was so heavy, or he might have ripped it from its hinges.

"George, do I have a visitor?" he called. George came from the receiving almost immediately..

"No sir," he answered and she watched every ounce of anxiety drain from his body in an instant. He looked at Jane with a relieved smile.

"Will you now tell me what on earth just happened?" she demanded.

"In the sitting room? I'd like to sit down," he smiled.

"If I may, ma'am, there is a gentleman here to see  _you."_

"Me?" she asked in surprise. Not many people would arrive for her without first securing an invitation.

He came around the corner, dressed in a cream-colored suit and a brilliant waistcoat of turquoise and gold. He was as handsome as she remembered though he stood a good few inches shorter than the soldier standing to her right. His hair was long, though it was cut short on top of his head and carefully curled. It was fastened at the back of his neck by a fine black ribbon, and braided down to his upper back, where a smaller ribbon kept the braid in place. He had on some makeup, but not so much it was immediately noticeable. Just enough to keep his skin pale and his cheeks and lips red. Overall, he looked very French.

"My dear, sweet Jane," he greeted. His voice was deeper than Major Reynold's, though not by very much. He came forward. His black heels clicked against the carpet. He walked with confidence and authority. He was just a hair taller than she was. "It has been far too long."

She let out a little breath as she tried to regain her senses. He picked up her hands in his and held them out between the two of them.

"You are just as beautiful as I remember."

He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Her cheek went numb beneath his lips and her knees felt weak.

"I... this is such a surprise," she answered. "I cannot believe you're here."

He smiled at her.

"Would you care to introduce me to your friend, Jane?" John asked behind her, stepping up so he stood by her side. She caught the hardness in her eyes. Shaking her head in disbelief, she slid her arm through Major Reynolds' and leaned against him.

"Major Reynolds, may I introduce to you, Mr. Hugh Raleigh, a long-time friend to the Whitmore family."

Raleigh's brow lifted as he waited for the introduction to finish.

"Hugh, it is my honor to introduce you to adjutant General in charge of supply transportation, Major John Reynolds."

He held out his hand and the two grasped at the other with hard, curt jerks of the wrists. Raleigh looked him over inquisitively and gave a warped little half smile. His blues twinkled with delight.

"A pleasure, Major. A pleasure."


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

_From Mark J. Reynolds, Bethel Town, St. James, Jamaica, Reynolds Plantation to Major J.S Reynolds, Lower Canada, Montreal, Bridgeport House, dated 6 October, 1777._

Dearest brother John,

A Major! My heart bursts with pride. (I am beyond overjoyed you decided to share this news in a letter with a return address. I hope this is in an invitation for frequent correspondence.) Had you only allowed father to purchase a commission those years back, you might find yourself a general already! Truly, your skill is awe inspiring. I read about you in the papers and I only lament I do not know you better. I only hope you might be satisfied with this rank and come home after you finish out this rebellion. It will not last much longer now. The papers say it will be finished within the next year, by fall God Willing. Father has all but doubled your original inheritance. Luke has even agreed to surrender the Somerset House to you, though truth be told, he is never there as it is. Most of his time is spent in Bermuda. His wife likes the hot weather and the children are too young to travel back and forth. In the next few years or so they will be forced to return to England to see the children educated properly, but he has no love for the House. He will take the smaller, East Ridge House on the Manor grounds. He does not envision having many more children. The last one, little Charlotte, nearly killed Lydia, and both have agreed to take certain precautions in the future. With their first born being a robust and healthy boy, I think they came to that decision quite easily.

Matthew has married this past month! I never thought I would see the day. I have not met her but I believe she is one of the Langston girls. The youngest if my memory serves me right. I have searched high and low for his last letter, but I think I sent it to the furnace with my other unimportant correspondence. He described her has full of life and beauty, with a lovely singing voice and above average skill on the piano. Mathew himself has set up residence in the Red House. I think he likes it because of how close it is to the village. He walks back and forth every day to pick up the family post himself. He likes to stretch his legs. The rest of the mail is sent to the main house by a servant. As he's always been he's a sullen soul with a sharp tongue. He's unforgiving in his opinions, and once a person has lost his good opinion, he might never get it back. He has lead me to believe in a number of letters, and from the news paper clippings concerning your rise in the army that he sends me, that you have not lost his high regard as of yet.

Simon is as Simon does. There is nothing very new to report. His son, I am still quite convinced, is a drunkard that spends his money on horse, drink, and prostitutes. If you recall the incident with his Christmas disappearance? I deeply fear for our family if he is put in charge of it. Father has made certain precautions that we receive what is owed to us. I only pray that drink kills him before the last of us dies, or we'll see our family come to ruin. Simon seems blind to the debauchery of his son. Should one try to bring up any concerns he gets whipped up into a frightful rage. You remember Simon's rages? I myself shiver at the mere thought of them. Sometimes, I'd rather face father's whip than Simon's fists.

I am in Jamaica still. I have been at the Bethel House for a month now and I am already anxious to return home. My Bessie is with child. I am beyond elated and though I will love this child as much as I love all of my children, I pray for a boy morning noon and night. What man does not want the opportunity to shape a little gentleman in his image, to raise the child up to be a good, moral, and just Englishman, and to see him grow up into a man of whom you can be so proud. I tell you now, if I am robbed of the opportunity, whilst Simon has done such a job of botching his own male heirs, I will need to set up an appointment to speak to the almighty Father at the time of my passing, for it is simply not something I can abide.

I am considering names for a boy. Naming a girl is not as important nor nearly as difficult. Something pretty that she can be proud of and will attract the right kind of gentleman and the task is over. A boy's name is of the utmost importance. It must be strong, it must convey certainty and confidence, and it must honor. I think Simon. Our Simon did not want a III. As you can recall, that caused quite a bit of tumult at the time of Christopher's naming. He relented to his wife's urging no doubt when choosing that name. The woman is as insufferable as I last described. imperious and overbearing, and not nearly as beautiful as we all must pretend she is. I told father choosing a woman with a title was a mistake. Money is a fine reason to marry, but when you go after a girl with a title you are asking for trouble. No matter your standing in society or father's seat in parliament, she thinks she is inherently better than us. "In the House of Lords we do this." As if the woman has ever set foot in the House of Lords or has the least bit of awareness as to what goes on. Relations are tense, though I suppose with Simon, they always have been.

You are nearing thirty. I cannot believe that you are not beginning to feel the itch to marry. Despite my days at university, I am quite fond of married life. Bessie is sweet, kind and attentive. A dutiful and devoted helper is all any man can truly want for in life. In fact, I think God's very best gift to man was an obedient woman. Her kind words and sweet strength keep me sane in this Godforsaken place. I feel now I live only for her letters. I tell you, there is no greater feeling than to love another and know they love you back just as deeply. You must begin thinking of a proper match, brother. I fear with your removal to Lower Canada you are going to find yourself in bed with some middle income Catholic girl. I beg you not to entwine yourself with a Catholic. Father might just die of shame. And do not settle on these so called aristocratic colonials. A lady in the colonies is a barmaid in England. They exhibit the very same manner and style. There are a number of beautiful women in England, in our very county, rich and well mannered, that would agree to be your bride with a mere flick of the pen and would live out their married days with you dutifully devoted. Only give word and I'll write to father and tell him of your desire to return home.

I end by imploring you once more, ardently, to return father's letters. He bombards me with letters demanding I forward your correspondence to him. I have not. That is a promise I made that I will not break. I have, as you gave me permission to do so, given him updates of your life and safety after each letter. He is proud of you and he wants you home.

I say earnestly, dear John, write father. What you have done to him is exceedingly cruel. A word from his son, even a quick note, will fill his heart with joy. In the meantime, I will continue to send him my updates and give him your love.

Your loving brother,

Mark.

_From Major J.S Reynolds, Lower Canada, Montreal, Bridgeport House, to Mark J. Reynolds, Bethel Town, St. James, Jamaica, Reynolds Plantation, dated 20 November, 1777._

Dear Mark,

Thank you for your last letter. I am pleased the family is well. I will add to my prayers additional hopes for your wife's safety in her coming pregnancy and that the child be born strong, healthy, and male. If I might make my own suggestion, I think Simon George Reynolds would be a good strong name and would give honor to our currently embattled King.

You have no fear that I will marry a Catholic. I find their manners quite displeasing. I do not know if it is their faith or their culture, but the women in Lower Canada are far too French in their manner. I dislike such ostentatious displays. It reminds me too much of home. As for a Colonial bride, they are simple and lack in many instances even the simplest of etiquette, but they are not as abhorrent as you suggest. Sometimes I think I might prefer their plain and simple life to that waiting for me back in England.

As to my returning to England or writing to our father, I again refuse. I am content with my life and do not wish to see it changed. Tell Luke he may keep the Somerset House. I do not want it.

Continue your updates but cease sending my love. It is not yours to give and I chose to withhold it.

\- John

_From Mark J. Reynolds, Bethel Town, St. James, Jamaica, Reynolds Plantation to Major J.S Reynolds, Lower Canada, Montreal, Bridgeport House, dated 7 December, 1777._

Dearest brother John,

The curtness in your letters never ceases to amaze me. You write to me as though I were a soldier in your army. Will I receive no update of your life? No update of your fancies, your women, acquaintances, your daily routine. You may have no interest in knowing of our lives, but we are keen to learn of yours. Are you so hardhearted that you will not write to a brother as a brother? We were not close as children? You and I lived in the same house with the same father and yet you experienced a very different childhood than I. The death of a mother, certainly when old enough to feel her loss, and at as tender an age as you, must have been quite difficult to bear, but are you so sensitive that you cannot move past a death that occurred over fifteen years ago? I am at an utter loss as to what has turned you into such a cold man and inspired such hatred in your heart for those that have done nothing but love you. I fear I will only ever be but a stranger to you.

With my deepest regret and all my love, your brother,

Mark.

_From Major J.S Reynolds, Lower Canada, Montreal, Bridgeport House, to Mark J. Reynolds, Bethel Town, St. James, Jamaica, Reynolds Plantation, dated 24 December, 1777._

Mark,

The curtness of which you speak is not done so out of conscious design. I know not whether that may be a comfort to you or not, but I am not a man of many words, nor have I ever been. When we met in Barbados two years ago, I thought that you would have seen that for yourself, despite my ailments. Of all my brothers, you are who I miss most. I think my regard for you should be clear through my willingness to correspond with you. I would not do the same for Luke, Matthew or Simon. If the manner in which I speak is so displeasing to you, perhaps the correspondence should terminate.

As to our childhood, we lived a different childhood indeed, for I was the son of a living, breathing mother, and I was hated for it. The cruelty and torment I endured at the hands of Luke and Matthew was so severely traumatic that I think a man with no sensibility at all would feel it to this day. My misery upon her death was compounded by the cruelty in which the news was relayed to me, the coldness in which I was handled, and the torment my brothers caused in its wake. And you, my closest confidant, my only friend in all the world, gone off to school, seldom even to write a letter, had forgotten me most entirely. I have gathered through the years that it was not until the Christmas after I had left that you realized I was gone. Indeed, it was not until I had been in India a full year, three years after my departure from England that you ever attempted to contact me, despite the use of my proper name and registration with the army.

It is easy no doubt for one who lived as comfortably as you to think I am merely indulging womanish sensitivities with my resentment.

M, J.S.R

_From Major J.S Reynolds, Lower Canada, Montreal, Bridgeport House, to Mark J. Reynolds, Bethel Town, St. James, Jamaica, Reynolds Plantation, dated 25 December, 1777._

Dear Mark,

I do not wish to discuss my last letter. If you send one in response to it I will burn it without reading.

My daily routine is rather boring. I rise sometime before seven. I take bread and water and do my letter writing. I do not have many personal letters to write. On days I have no letters to send, I will do some light reading or begin my daily tasks. Work in Lower Canada is fairly routine and my days are not too busy. I breakfast at ten, ride at eleven when I can, and take a light lunch at two o'clock. I eat at five thirty and finish my remaining work for the day. I retire by eight. Some nights I cannot sleep, I read before bed, but I worry it is already beginning to hurt my eyes, and so only do so now in the summer when it is light.

The weather in Montreal is not as bad as most say. The winters are bitterly cold and the snow is deep, but the springs are mild, though very wet, and the summers can be rather pleasant and warm, though rarely does it reach the same level of oppressive heat you experience in the lower colonies. Overall, I find the land quite pleasant and will be content to stay and find a wife here, but with the rebellion, I think I may be moved south soon, and I have terminated my budding courtship with a young girl here. You will not mourn the loss of this courtship for me, as she would not have been up to family standards and I face the prospect of parting her indifferently. She has wept, but I think she mourns the loss of my connections more than she mourns the loss of my person.

I have a new horse I have named Alexander. I suppose he is not so new. I have had him for a year now and I have never had a beast I loved quite so much. He is a magnificent animal. He is eighteen hands. He has a long neck and high withers, a chiseled face, a lean agile body, a good depth of hindquarters and long legs. His coat is black and shiny and he has a white spot on his nose. He snorts when I kiss it, but presses his face to mind when I do not, so I think he likes it. I had to pay extra for him due to his color. True black. Not a dark chestnut or bay.

I have considered purchasing a dog. I do not care for a special type so long as it is affectionate in nature. I think a dog makes a better companion than a woman most times. A dog does not put conditions on its love as family often does, and unlike with women, a dog's devotion is inspired by love of your person and not your pocket book.

I enjoy fruit and poetry and flowers. I am very fond of the orange and green melons, grapes and pineapple. Unfortunately, it so often spoils in transport, I haven't had a good apple in months. The flowers in Lower Canada are actually quite beautiful. I've purchased a book since arriving of the flowers I might find in the Colonies. I have made it my goal to collect them all before I move on.

I hope Bessie's pregnancy is progressing well. I wish you a happy Christmas and New Year.

John.

_From Mark J. Reynolds, Bethel Town, St. James, Jamaica, Reynolds Plantation to Major J.S Reynolds, Lower Canada, Montreal, Bridgeport House, dated 20 January, 1778._

Dearest brother John,

I will obey you, though you must permit me to express the deep hurt you've imposed upon me with your letter dated 24 December 77, and that by refusing to allow me to defend myself, you have done me a great disservice.

I hope you also had a happy Christmas and New Years and pray you did not spend it alone.

I have never heard anything but terrible opinions of the Lower Canada. Cold, cloudy, snow that falls for days, poor Englishman and rich Frenchman. The very worst of both classes. I am pleased you enjoy your time there. I am not too well pleased with Jamaica. It is hot and the weather is always nice. I only go out to review the slaves in the morning, before the weather turns too oppressive. I took one walk just past noon and it was one of the most miserable experiences of my life. Even in my light linen shirt my clothing stuck to my body. I assure you I lost a good deal of weight on that traumatic jaunt down the hill. My hair stuck to my face, my face was as red as a tomato, and I had to peel my clothing off of me the moment I returned.

It gave me an ingenious thought though. Those poor wretches in the mills and the fields cannot possibly be forced to work during those most oppressive hours. Mere civility and compassion compelled me to change their hours. I have allowed them the choice. Father thought me insane, giving a negro a choice in the matter. Too much free will is bad for them. It causes them too much stress. I certainly do not wish to cause them any more strain, but I thought it was not too much a danger to grant them this small opportunity at autonomy.

I have allowed them to work well before sunrise until one o'clock. They may rest until four, when the worst of the sun has passed, and then work until ten or so at night. There are often few clouds and one can see well enough in the moonlight. I think these negros have a better sight in the dark than the white man does as it is. However, I understand the dangers that come from working in the dark, and I'll not waste funds on burning large candles or fires through the night, and so they may keep their normal hours if they wish, but once their troop has chosen a shift they must keep to it. The deaths from exhaustion have cut down drastically and immediately and I think that we may save in replenishing our workforce with this new time table.

One poor wretch had her fingers sucked up. Took her finger tips right off. I have a terrible mess on my hands now as she cannot sew and her hands are far too hideous to serve in the home. I could put her out in the fields, but her body is not strong enough to cut down the stocks. I may have to keep her in the mill, but she weeps hysterically every time I try to get her to return to work. I've put her in the kitchen for the meantime, but the kitchen is already fully staffed. If I try to sell her, I'll only get half of what she was worth when we bought her, and I do not think I can rationalize the loss to father without seeming overly sympathetic to a negro woman.

You would love the plantation if you saw it. The flowers on the grounds are magnificent and the fruits from market always fresh and delicious. The mango I brought you when you were in hospital last fall was from that very market. Remember how much you loved it! It may have been the fever, but you were overjoyed by it.

I think often of Barbados. Never in my life have I felt such a nauseating mixture of elation and devastation when I received your letter requesting my presence. I am still in some awe that you had been in the Indies, so close, for three months prior and did not think so send me word. It was not until you believed yourself at death's door that you decided to call upon your poor, forgotten brother. The conversations we had during your recovery are some of my fondest memories, despite your pallor and the smell of death upon you. I hope it will not take another brush with death to bring me to your side.

Bessie's pregnancy is progressing well. I desire nothing more than to return to England but father has not yet granted me permission to leave. The overseer is well prepared and I can leave the moment the letter arrives. I write to him once a week to make sure no male has been lost in post.

I wrote to Bessie about the name. Simon George Reynolds, we will name our son.

Loving brother,

Mark.

_From Major J.S Reynolds, Lower Canada, Montreal, Bridgeport House, to Mark J. Reynolds, Bethel Town, St. James, Jamaica, Reynolds Plantation, dated 7 February, 1778._

Dear Mark,

The egg I had with my breakfast this morning was the most horrendously cooked egg I have ever experienced in my twenty-eight years on this Earth. It was undercooked, yet rubbery, and while the yoke was hard and powdery, the whites were cold and runny. I sent out for another egg and yet a second arrived in the same state. When I requested another cook for me I received three plates with three different eggs all at once. My landlady watched me try every one with such a hard and oppressive gaze, that I did not make the effort to explain to her how a proper egg is to be cooked. I have since left word that I will have no eggs served with my breakfast, which is a shame, as it is one of the few foods I thoroughly enjoy.

I just received notice that I'll be moving to New York in two months' time. I am expected to set up residence by May 1. I have secured lodgings in a small townhouse in York city for the time being, but I have also sent out inquiries to some of the larger estates requesting lodging for myself and my staff. I'm officially an adjutant General, what little that title actually means. My staff consists of ten men and of course my subordinates within my division, but I am still merely administrative in my function. I am pleased of it. I've killed far too many men and I do not wish to kill any more. My purpose in this war is to save lives. I think I am more than capable of doing so.

It is with great pride I undertake this endeavor. I feel this is my first real opportunity to serve my King and though I may never see battle and will not have as glorious a war story as others, I think in my own modest way, I can contribute greatly to the glory of my country.

Keep the woman in the kitchen. To send her back to the mill would be cruel and if she is as weak in body as you say, work in those fields will see her dead with a season. Father need never know and she will be a help to those in the kitchen. From my experience, the staff required to run a good kitchen in reality and the staff a well-to-do person expects will run a good kitchen, are two very different things entirely. She scarified her fingers for the betterment of our family and should be treated well in return.

...

...

In closing, I've added to my prayers that you receive permission to return to England soon and I sincerely hope that as I write this, you are on your voyage home.

John.

_From Mark J. Reynolds, Bethel Town, St. James, Jamaica, Reynolds Plantation to Major J.S Reynolds, Lower Canada, Montreal, Bridgeport House, dated 4 March, 1778._

Dearest Brother John,

I am very sorry for the state of your morning eggs, brother, but I am far more concerned with the later part of your letter that discusses a move to the southern colonies. I'm both exhilarated and alarmed at the prospect of you moving down to New York. From the reports I have read, New York is a good and loyal colony. I hope that you will keep an eye out though. I have opened up the atlas that lays dormant in the library. New York is very close to New Jersey. I am told New Jersey has fallen into a miserably pit of anarchy and destruction. Never a colony of which I had a very high opinion. New York City, I have been told, is tolerable.

The weather is, I believe, far more suitable than Lower Canada. I am told the summers are sunny and warm but not nearly as hot as the Indies. As I write this, I am already dripping with sweat and it is not yet ten in the morning. I miss the English sun and the clouds that cover it. What I would not give for a mild summer day where I could take tea outside in a light coat.

You'll be happy to know, I put the woman in the kitchen. She is happy there, though I still think it leaves the kitchens overstaffed. If she were older I would not have such a natural aversion to it, but she is so young. It's a waste of a good resource.

…

…

I would like your address when you have permanent lodgings in New York. On my passage back to England I plan to stop in New York to visit with you face to face. I am hoping to get back before Bess gives birth. The sooner I am able to be on my way the better. Please return this letter with haste. Father has given me permission to return home, but only after I have set my eyes upon you.

I will wait patiently, your loving brother,

Mark.

_From Mark J. Reynolds, Bethel Town, St. James, Jamaica, Reynolds Plantation to Major J.S Reynolds, British Command headquarters, New York Forward requested, dated 20 April, 1778_

I cannot help but think this sudden silence is due to my request for an address. You will remember, our interaction in Barbados just two years prior was not at all unpleasant. Indeed, I thought that, though you lay terribly ill of fever for the majority our time together, that you enjoyed the company of a brother.

After ten years of separation and nearly that much time of utter silence, I think I am owed a short audience whilst death is not upon you. I shall not stay long. I want to see my wife, children, and new born baby. I will not return to England until I have seen you. I hope that the knowledge I may very well miss the birth of my child if you delay will serve as motivation to return an address to me as soon as you are able.

I await you impatiently,

your loving and increasingly annoyed brother,

Mark.

_From Major J.S Reynolds, forwarded through British Command Headquarters, to Mark J. Reynolds, Bethel Town, St. James, Jamaica, Reynolds Plantation, dated 7 May, 1778._

I have secured permanent lodgings an hour from the city. It is a large home with enough rooms to comfortably house the most important members of my staff. There are two drawing rooms, a parlor (which is very much the same as their drawing rooms), a sitting room, a receiving room, a dining room and a very large library.

My host is an insufferable man. He is exactly what you described. He lacks manners, etiquette and decorum. He blusters, bumbles, and fumbles through conversation. His wife is a kind woman. I met her my second day at the house. She is very sickly. It took all she had to simply stand upon my entrance into her private sitting room. She is pale and wears a wig when receiving guests. I have no basis for thinking so, but despite her fairly young age, I imagine her hair is gray and thinning beneath the pretty blonde wig she rests on her head. Her hand shake was weak and her fingers trembled. Her body is frail.

Her name is Margaret. The moment I heard her name leave my host's lips my heart stopped beating. I was struck with such a sense of painful misery that I did not work the rest of the day. I could think of nothing but my mother and how deeply I miss her kind smile and gentle laugh. I visit her once a day when she is up to it. She almost always is, though some days are better than others. She enjoys when I bring her fresh flowers from my rides. I have done every day since I arrived and will continue to do so until I am gone from the house.

The daughter is quite beautiful and not yet three and twenty. Green eyes the color of emeralds and hair a beautiful and bright blond. She is quite tall for a woman, with a long slender neck, and she holds herself with such grace that instead of a hindrance her height is a true asset. Her waist is small and hips pleasingly shaped. Not thin, yet not plump. She is long legged, or so I imagine, and has about her an alluring elegance that often draws the gaze. She is a clever young woman, who thinks far more than she says. Her eyes are sharp and inquisitive. Her interests go far beyond the superficial. She is unafraid of offending when she sees a wrong that must be righted. When I am around her, my hands grow clammy and my heart beats so hard I can hear it my ears. I've spoken with women I have found beautiful in the past, but never have I become so nervous in the presence in the presence of a young woman. All the words come out wrong. The more I hope to impress her, the more I do to make her detest me. I learned during my search for residence, that she is worth 40,000 pounds upon the death of her father.

I am happy in my lodgings. It is a fairly large estate. The family is very wealthy and while the father often makes me want to rip the hair from my head, he is kind and attentive. I hope that I will keep residence here until the end of the rebellion.

Please return home to your wife. I do not desire a face to face meeting. I am too busy to come into the city for a social visit and I do not want you here. When this rebellion is over, we will discuss the possibility of a brief reunion. I hope to continue a correspondence throughout the war but no face to face meeting will take place.

John

_From Mark J. Reynolds, New York, to Major J.S Reynolds, forwarded through British Command Headquarters, dated 20 May, 1778_

-J

I am in New York lodging at the White Horse Inn. This is the best stationary I could acquire, such as it is. It's a fine establishment. The service is good quality and the food is well made. My voyage from Jamaica went well and without incident. I had my own cabin for the first half of the journey but had to share it with a second gentleman after the Captain's first mate fell ill and he had to be quarantined from the others. He was a fine fellow and told me of the White Horse Inn. He's a colonial but he was well dressed and well spoken, Harvard educated, though actually seemed rather intelligent. I had informed him of my plight. He was a sympathetic man. He came by just yesterday to tell me his cousin heard that a Major Reynolds was staying with a Richard Whitmore just an hour outside the city. The family has a sickly wife named Margaret and a single daughter. I do not think it's possible such a coincidence ever existed.

My ship leaves for Liverpool on 4 June. If I do not hear a response from you by 1 June, I will gather my things and come to Whitmore House myself and if you refuse to see me, I will inform the family of the wickedness in which you have treated your family.

I regret you've forced me into such action but believe this, I look forward to seeing you again.

Loving brother,

Mark

PS: Post has not yet come. How difficult is it to have a somewhat reliable post? If this is any indication of how these colonials function, then the war will certainly not last much longer.

PSS: Still no post. I am quite cross. I've complained to management. They informed me I was expected to walk it to post myself. Utterly ridiculous. If this letter were not so important, I would have paid a negro boy to bring it down. I am paying special post to be sure it reaches you as soon as possible.

_From Major J.S Reynolds, Whitmore House, forwarded through Military Post, to Mark J. Reynolds, New York City, White Horse Inn, dated 1 June, 1778._

_New York – 1778_

I only just received this letter. I am sending it via personal courier. I will meet you at White Horse Inn, 2 June.

Do not come to Whitmore house. It is of the very most importance and I will explain all to you when I arrive at White Horse Inn. I leave for the City tonight.

Earnestly I plead with you, do not come to Whitmore House.

-M, J.S.R


	10. Chapter Ten

John sat staring at the man on the other side of the room with a blank face and a relaxed, though erect body, and neither Ms. Whitmore nor the stranger could sense the anxious and rageful contempt that was radiating through his limbs like liquid steel. He removed a letter from his breast pocket and read it over again. He folded it neatly and placed it back into his pocket. He looked back at the newcomer.

He had a bright smile. His crooked teeth did nothing to detract from his handsome looks. His hair was expertly done, his clothing had come from France, the walking stick he held pressed to the floor beside his black white polished show, was ivory and ornately painted. More than likely it came from the Orient. He had a small, delicate nose and arched, manicured eyebrows set the perfect distance from each other. He had an infectious laugh and a brilliant smile. His mouth, full lipped and red, was permanently turned upward.

He spoke directly to Jane, though often his eyes would flicker over to John and examine him briefly. John would stare back with a look that the other two in the room wrongly assumed was boredom.

"I've been putting my money into more secure investments. Unfortunately, those don't pay well enough to maintain my lifestyle, leaving me to put more work into my office."

"Your profession, sir?" John asked.

"Hugh's a lawyer," Jane answered for the newcomer. John gave a single nod. He traced the little scar on his palm.

"I cannot say I am lacking work. With the military courts and civil courts vying for dominance, I'm often in court arguing to a magistrate which court even has proper jurisdiction."

"Fascinating," John rumbled.

"Not so," he chuckled. "But it pays the bills."

"Do you have a specific clientele?"

"Indeed," Raleigh explained. "Whoever supplies me with the most coin."

"You'll represent rebels then?" His eyes flickered to Jane. "Men whose property was confiscated for treason?"

"I wish to see only that the law is followed. I have enough faith in our system of justice to believe the truth will out."

John was unimpressed. He caught Jane's gaze but she looked away quickly.

Jenny walked into the room. She eyed John with a small smile on her face. She waited for him to address her, instead of Jane as she should have done. Jane looked to her, ready to hear what she had to say, but instead followed her gaze toward him. He was pleased to see a bit of hardness there. Jealously, he most sincerely hoped.

"Yes, Jenny?" he asked.

"Tea, sirs? Madam?"

"Coffee please," Mr. Raleigh said. Jane's head turned toward him abruptly.

"I will have coffee as well," Jane answered. John frowned. She'd never chosen coffee before.

"Tea for me, Jenny, if it will not be too much for you to prepare both?"

"Not at all, Major, Sir, whatever you want," she said and curtseyed. She hurried from the room and John let a bitter smile come to his face.  _Whatever I want._ He looked at Jane. She was looking at Mr. Raleigh.

"Are you a coffee drinker, Mr. Raleigh?"

"I am," he answered. "My affection for it was fostered during my travels in Europe. But the coffee is far stronger in France."

"I've had coffee from France!" Jane added excitedly. "I hope more will arrive soon."

"Unlikely," John said rather stonily. "With the blockades," he added, hoping he sounded a bit lighter.

"You must have some very exciting stories to tell, Major," Raleigh said. "Tell me of the most exciting battle you've had to date."

"I have no desire to speak of death at the current time," John responded. He had very little desire to converse with this man. He only remained in the room to keep an eye on Jane.

"Does the family launder your clothes? Or the military?"

"The family," John answered.

"It is a very vivid red, is it not? Magnificent in its brightness. I once considered joining the military myself, though I think I would have done a piss poor job. Pardon me, Jane. If one saw me fence, I'd be paid a handsome fee to  _not_ enlist," he chuckled. Jane smiled.

"You've spent a few years in Europe?" she asked.

"The past three. I've spent some time in London and Paris. The majority of my time was in the Netherlands."

"What did you study there?"

"A fair number of things. Accounting, banking, I received my law degree some time ago. Three years before I left for Europe? I also studied language. French and German. I never took to Dutch."

"You're landed?" he asked. Raleigh looked surprised. Indeed, it was a very abrupt and direct question. Usually such inquiries were done in a more subtle and tasteful manner, but John was uninterested in tact.

"I am. My father owned quite a bit of property to the North. We have our estate on those lands. Some minor farming. We own a fleet of ships. Suffering mightily now, as you can imagine."

"And yet you went into law?" he asked.

"A respectable profession and a means to provide for myself if anything should happen. When the troubles first started, I knew I would need a profession. It is impossible to know if I'll have anything left when this war is over. The rebels come into my fields and steel the food, my ships are being sunk daily by these rebel pirates and our King's Glorious Navy alike. It is a comfort, to know I am not dependent upon the will of others."

"A fine way to be," John answered. He begrudgingly respected the man for it. Jane did too, by the look in her eyes. The coffee and tea was brought in. John thanked Jenny softly and she hurried out with a smile. Jane did not look amused and John had a feeling, to his dampened delight, that the girl was going to be thoroughly scolded for her inability to be discreet when this audience was over.

John was quite miserable as the early afternoon progressed. Raleigh and Jane commanded the conversation. They spoke about their younger days, pleasant memories and those they knew between the two of them. The name Alexander came up once. Both quieted. Saddened and embarrassed. The name Hank came up twice. The first mention brought a laugh, the second that same refined misery. John wanted to reach out and touch Jane's hand and tell her it was no reflection on her. She had no reason to be ashamed. He did nothing and simply waited for the moment to pass. He broke into conversation only to correct them on their misunderstandings of England, the current war, and the system of government. Colonists had such silly ideas about Government. Even those loyal to the Crown needed some gentle reminding.

But the day was only going to get worse. There was a strong knock on the door. He felt each one in his bones. Boom. Boom. Boom. He knew immediately who it was and his eyes flickered over to Jane. She had turned her head to look at him. She desired to see his reaction. He gave a small, tight smile and sunk more deeply into his chair. He turned his face inward, pressing his face into his palm. He heard George open the door. He listened keenly, ears perking up. Mr. Raleigh continued to speak. Luckily, though he had a strong voice, he was not a loud speaker.

"Yes, sir, John Reynolds, please. Major."

"Just here, if you please."

John rose to his feet and Raleigh stopped speaking. He looked up at him with raised eyebrows and parted lips. He awaited an apology or, at the very least, an explanation for his abrupt and rude interruption. John did not have a high enough opinion of him to give either. He looked to Jane and gave a stiff bow.

"Excuse me," he said and walked out into the hallway. He turned the corner and found Mark removing his hat from his head. He was gazing up at the portraits on the walls with appreciation. Mr. Whitmore did have a very nice collection. His eyes were drawn to the large, red figure making its way down the hall toward him. John felt a rush of emotion but he made no attempts to make sense of them.

"I will see him, George, thank you," he greeted the doorman, butler, valet. George gave a bow. Dutifully noting the finality in his voice, he gave disappeared into another room. They stared at each other a few moments. Neither was quite aware what to say. Mark ran his eyes over John and a smile came to his face. His lips were pressed together, his cheeks were taut, and his eyes were filled with emotion. Creases formed around his eyes and in his forehead as his eyebrows came together above his nose.

"Johnny," he greeted finally. His voice was low and hoarse. John opened his mouth to speak. He gave a nod. His vocal chords would not work. He just continued to nod. He looked down and pushed the air from his lungs. Mark stepped forward and with an act uncharacteristic to the coldness he remembered from his family, he wrapped John in a warm and tight embrace. John remained where he was. His arms hung by his side. Mark pulled back, hands on his shoulders, and looked at him. "It's been far too long."

John struggled to find the ability to speak. His throat felt dry. It tightened and constricted, cutting off any chance his vocal chords might begin to operate properly. John did not have to worry about speak then. His brother's blue eyes darted up over his shoulder and a small, almost predatory smile crept over his face.

"Oh, Johnny," he complimented and moved passed him. John turned. He stood rigid and still, his face was impassive, but his heart pounded so violently in his chest he thought it was going to leap up out of his throat and hop across the floor. "I have heard much about you."

Mark extended a hand. Jane surrendered hers and Mark stepped back into a perfectly executed bow. Jane smiled and bent her knees. John slowly approached. The throbbing above his eye continued. He was watching the scene unfold as if through a thick fog ghosting across a Jamaican swamp.

"You are as beautiful as he described, which I did not think possible," Mark said with a charming smile. John felt his ears turn red and he glanced at the flamboyant Mr. Raleigh. He viewed the scene with surprisingly astute eyes and John had enough sense to note there may be more to him than met the eye. The dandy looked over Mark critically. John felt a rush of protective anger toward the hapless colonial. Mark was well dressed and had clearly spared no expense on his clothing, but it was tasteful and fashionable. His hair, the same sandy brown as John's, was pulled back at his neck and carefully combed. He did not curl his hair. Perhaps it was due to the past few days of travel and his living in a colonial Inn in the middle of an occupied city. His stockings were whiter than the purest snow. His breeches were a dull black, but that was preference and not due to faded clothing. His coat was a vivid, if very bright, blue, just a few shades darker than the sky. His waistcoat was gold and cut neatly to his lean frame, though it was a bit long for the most recent styles. All in all, he displayed his wealth in a very respectable manner.

"You must be one of John's younger brothers," Jane greeted happily. John swallowed and looked at Mark. Mark's eyebrows lifted and his lips twisted into a cruelly amused smile. His eyes flickered with surprised amusement and he turned to look at John. John simply stared back, waiting for the sky to fall down and crush him beneath it's wait.

"So you  _have_ told them about us," he answered smoothly. "Here I thought our dear John had forgotten all about his brothers."

John, surprisingly, was disappointed.

He looked at Jane and his lips parted. He closed them again and looked down at the floor. Jane stepped to his side and closed her hands around his wrist in a gentle touch of comfort and encouragement. He forced a tight smile.

"Jane," he spoke. "May I introduce you to my brother, Mr. Mark Reynolds. Brother, my host's daughter, Miss Jane Whitmore."

"A true honor, sir," she greeted.

"No, love, the honor is most certainly mine," he answered. "If I might be so rude," his eyes glanced over Raleigh slowly. He clearly had no interest in making his acquaintance and it was with a level of rudeness that should have embarrassed John, but did not, that he turned his back to the colonial and looked at his brother. "Is there a place we might discuss things privately?"

"I shall commandeer Mr. Whitmore's office."

"You do not have an office of your own?" Mark asked.

"I've set up in my rooms. I didn't want to take his office."

"Why ever not? You're fighting their war for them," Mark answered. John did not see the dark little smile that grew on Hugh's face or the sharp look he and Jane exchanged.

"New York is a loyal colony. They do what they're told," he said and raised a hand to knock on the door. Not long after the knock, the door opened to reveal Mr. Whitmore's red face popping out of his shoulders. He very much resembled a turtle in the suit he was currently wearing.

"Mr. Whitmore, I am in need of your office," he said curtly.

"Oh, Yes, Major! Of course, just let me collect my books. And this is?"

They entered the office as Mr. Whitmore began to collect his books and papers from his desk. John glanced around the room. It was a fine room. He'd do well working inside a room of this size, but John did not need much, and he'd rather not cause such an inconvenience. Mr. Whitmore, though he grated on John's nerves from time to time, more often than not even, he was a kind man who had already given up very much for John's comfort. It would feel unjust to rob him of his office, though he was sure the kind colonial would surrender it in a moment.

"My brother, Mr. Mark Reynolds. Mark, Mr. Richard Whitmore, of the New York Whitmores."

John waited. Mr. Whitmore looked up rather sharply. His eyes twinkled. Sometimes John forgot the intelligence the man possessed. He had sharp wits in business, though they sometimes failed to translate into social settings. It seemed when the future of a most beloved daughter was in play, he was a bit more on guard than normal.

"We have different mothers," Mark explained.

"Had," John could not help but add. Mark's smile warped as it grew tight on his face and eyes grew steely at the unnecessary clarification.

"I see," Mr. Whitmore said with a relieved smile. "Well, it is an honor to meet a brother to our brave Major Reynolds. All you may require from us, it is yours. Will you be needing a place to stay? Should I add another plate for dinner? We have the one extra room left, but it is very small. I can move Jane in there –"

"I will be returning to the city this evening," Mark answered. He cut Mr. Whitmore off, though gently, and if he had not, they might have stood there for ten minutes listening to the inner workings of Richard Whitmore's mind. John felt relieved. A small sigh of relief actually escaped him. Mark looked over at him, and then added out of spite, "But I would love to stay for dinner."

"Wonderful! Yes! Oh, wonderful. I have so many questions for you. Our darling Major does not speak of England much. I'm very curious. Manners and fashion. You will indulge me, I hope?"

"I would love to," he answered graciously.

"I will inform the kitchen," Mr. Whitmore announced and hurried from the room. The door shut and Mark smiled.

"A lovely fellow. Very agreeable."

John saw no reason to feign pleasant small talk with a brother.

"I asked you not to come here."

"Yes, I know. I received the letter this morning," he admitted. He removed it from his pocket. "To put it frankly, John, you've done nothing to inspire confidence that your word will be kept in regard to meeting with me. You see, I thought, if he is willing to meet me, why does it matter where the meeting takes place. Now I see," Mark said. He tilted his head and gave a critical look of disapproval. "Really John. To lie to such an extent –"

"I never once said I was an heir. Mr. Whitmore discovered I was the only child of Simon and Margaret. He never once considered father might have had more than one wife. To be blunt, he most certainly believes you a bastard."

"You never saw fit to correct them," Mark pointed out. "Do you think the Almighty Father draws such a fine line when it comes to deception?"

"I had no idea such a misconception existed until something was said and by then I… an attachment had been formed. I had no idea what to say."

"'I'm a fifth born son,' might have been something," Mark answered. "I'm not here to disrupt your life, John, but I will offer my brotherly advice, unsolicited or not. She  _will_  find out. A lie of this magnitude is not something conducive to a happy marriage."

"I am not going to discuss this with you."

"Then I have no reason to assist you in your deception. Shall I tell her now?" he asked and put his hand on the door knob. He opened the door and John reached out. He jabbed his fingers into the door and clicked it shut.

"Would you like a drink, Mark?" he asked dryly.

"Port. A half glass." He tossed his hat on a chair and sat down on the settee. He flipped his coat out from underneath him with a flourish as he sat. He leaned back with crossed legs and draped an arm over the back of the chair. He sat like father. John poured them both a small glass. He took a seat after handing the port to his brother. He drank his in a single gulp. Mark observed him quietly and then took a delicate sip of his own.

"I did not set out to deceive, nor will I much longer. I've made attempts to tell her the truth. There has not been a right time."

"Nor will there be. The longer you wait the worse it will be and the harder she will take it."

"I suppose I… hope that by the time I tell her she will have an attachment of her own to me. She will not care."

"She will care  _more_. It's a wicked thing to lie about. A lie used by the worst of scoundrels. And so, it is not as though you do not have an inheritance."

"Five thousand pounds, Mark, and a house I can live in until our debauched nephew takes over the estate and decides to put us out on the street. I'm far more pleased with my military career than living on a pittance and the clemency of, in your own words, a drunkard that wastes his money on drink and whores."

"The lawyers will see to it the will is honored, and he cannot force us from the land until we're dead. Whether or not he buries us in the family plot is another matter entirely, but my soul will be with the angels and for that I have little concern. And have you not considered, surely attaching herself to a family as old and respected as ours will be a vast improvement to her. She will be introduced to London society, learn how to conduct herself properly –"

"I want no part of London society and I have come to understand, that while a cousin will be inheriting the estate itself, she will be receiving some… forty thousand pounds."

"Good lord, John," Mark said with an uncomfortable laugh. It was clearly worse than Mark had initially believed and was no longer keen on making light of it. He let out a breath and shook his head. "If this is some way for you to prove something to father –"

"It's not," he replied curtly. "This has nothing to do with father. Now, please, tell me what you've come here to discuss."

Mark observed him a moment and then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a letter, read it in its entirety, and then handed it over to him.

"I fail to see what this has to do with me," he answered.

"Are you so callous?" Mark asked. "You were as close to him as any of us."

"He was not my cousin," John reminded him. "And you only half a brother."

He regretted it the moment he said it. Mark looked at him with a bitter smile.

"Perhaps it is fancy but I choose to believe that you say such hateful things to mask your own insecurities."

"Aren't you a wise man," John sneered. He leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, and pressed two fingers into his cheek.

"The only one that ever made mention of it was you. You realize this, yes? That neither I, nor Luke, nor Matthew, not even Simon, ever looked upon you as less a brother."

"You certainly made me feel as such," he answered.

"Yes then. I will concede. I pronounce you in the right after all these years. I apologize most heartily. Now come home."

"Most sincere," John replied. "And if you had not noticed I'm in the midst of a war."

"My meaning was not lost on you, I know that," he answered. "I am missing the birth of my child to sit down and talk with you, does that award me nothing?"

"How did he die?" John suddenly asked.

"Thrown from his horse. He lingered three weeks."

John looked out the window.

"Did he suffer?"

"He was unconscious through most of it," he answered. John nodded.

"I will mourn him," he said. "And I offer my sympathies. I know what he meant to you."

Mark nodded solemnly. It was his turn to look out the window in thought. He massaged his lips with his fingers.

"Christ, John," he breathed. "If your coming home is predicated on us understanding why you left, you will never see England again. I've tried to understand it. I cannot."

"I hated that house. I hated the servants. I hated my brothers. I hated my father. The  _only_ thing I had was gone, and mock me if you wish, I care not about your jokes. I needed  _something._ "

"We had all lost our mother –"

"Luke was four. Matthew was two. You not an hour old. Do  _not_ compare it."

"And Simon?"

"Simon is a cruel man. Do not insult my intelligence trying to deny that."

Mark squinted out the window. He looked back at John.

"I am sorry," he said. "I am truly, deeply sorry. Whatever I might have done, I knew not that I did it. Your letter –"

"I do not want to discuss it –"

"Well I do! I bloody well do!" Mark barked loudly. John fell silent and stared. "You don't put that into ink and then refuse to talk about it."

Mark took a moment to collect himself. He jerked on the lapels of his coat jacket. His face was bright red, a vein on the side of his neck pulsing. He looked very much like their father when he grew angry.

"I sent letters home from school to you," Mark said. He leaned forward. "I sent them and never received a response. When I came for the Christmas break father told me only then that you had disappeared again. He had not wished to disturb my studies. To say that I did not care enough to see you gone is grossly unjust."

"You waited four years before you tried to contact me," he added. His ears were red.

"I was angry, John. I won't say I didn't know where you were. I did. I was angry."

John could understand anger. He could understand hurt.

"It's been ten years. We are not the same family. Can you not try and find it in your heart to forgive us?"

John closed his eyes. He was in the trunk again. Hot, tight, his lungs ached, his head hurt. He pounded at the top, screaming, screeching, begging to be let free. He was going to die. He'd die that very moment. He was covered in sweat. He opened his eyes. He retrieved a kerchief and gently dabbed his forehead. He shook his head. Finally, he spoke.

"I'm sorry, Mark," he said. "I can't."

Mark's shoulders sagged and the creased in his face disappeared as it dropped downward.

"Do you think there might be a time when you can?"

He thought a moment. He was standing in the middle of his room, drenched in his own urine as the serving maids came in to change his linen. He heard his father's voice. Stupid boy. Embarrassment. A stupid baby boy. Eleven years old, covered in piss. Would any of you ladies like a man who pisses the bed? No, not even a serving maid would want a stupid, baby boy like you. Do you u-u-u-unders-s-sss-s-stand th-that?

His hands trembled and he examined the little scar his left thumb. He couldn't use the right. It was just too hard. He helped him use the right. Whipped his palms so hard the right was all he could use for months.

"I don't know," he answered. "We can discuss the matter more in depth when the war is over."

"Better than no," Mark answered. He smiled as though he was sucking on lemons. He examined his hands and then rubbed them together. "Well I suggest you get her pregnant," he said abruptly. John looked up in surprise. "If you want to trap her, get her pregnant."

"I do not want to trap her."

"Yes, you do," Mark answered shortly. "Otherwise you would have told her the truth long before now. You've been in the house a month?"

"A little over."

"Get her pregnant," he said again. "Truly, her life will be better for it. These colonies are just… no good society."

"I'm not very good society myself," John answered dryly.

"No, you're not," Mark agreed. "But you're a Reynolds."

John smiled despite himself.

"I am very fond of her, brother. And now… that you've confirmed my … mistruth…"

"Mistruth," Mark murmured with a short breath of amusement.

"She appears fond of me, despite myself."

Mark cringed a bit, "Who is the fop?"

"Mr. Hugh Raleigh. Some old family friend from New York. Thinks himself a French Duke."

"If she's shown any sort of attraction to you she'll not be interested in him so have no fear on that account. A woman is attracted to one type of man." He slapped his knees and stood. "Shall we take tea in the parlor? Or one of the drawing rooms?"

"I thought you were returning to the city."

"I am… but I was invited to dinner, and I'd like to better know this girl that has caught my big brother's fancy."

"Mark."

"John, do not test me. I'm not all that impressed with this … mistruth… but I'm willing to play along. Do not think I will not march right up to your kind but blundering host and tell him you have four healthy older brothers."

John stared at him from his chair.

"You would do that?" he asked honestly.

"If you knew me better you'd know the answer to that question," Mark replied. "I don't have any desire at the present moment to answer it for you. If you'd like, you may try and push me out and we'll see what happens."

John stood. He stopped just before Mark. The two stared at each other. John was pleased to note he was just a hair taller than him.

"I don't think you'd do that to me," John answered. Mark blinked. "Which is why I will not turn you out."

Mark smiled.

"The tea here is dreadful," John said and opened the door. He called as they entered the hallway. "Jenny? Send down for tea?"

"Different tea?" Mark asked in surprise.

"No. Simply the way they brew it. I've spent some weeks properly educating the staff on how a proper house is run."

Mark examined the rooms available to them. "These are wealthy people," he observed quietly as he poked his head into the dining room and saw the bright green paint that covered the walls. John said nothing. They settled on a parlor instead of either of the drawing rooms, but the room was still larger than a parlor should be.

"Well, John, would like to hear about your family in England?"

He did not.

"Please," he answered. Mark began to speak.

* * *

They waited until they arrived at the gazebo to speak. In the middle of the gardens, one side just a hundred feet from the duck pond, no one else in sight, they felt secure that any approaching person could be seen from a hundred yards away.

"So, you… enjoy French coffee?" she asked. He leaned against a post of the gazebo, hands before him, holding his walking stick in front of his body. He had one freshly polished shoe tucked behind the other leg.

"I love French coffee," he responded. He had a tiny smile playing on his lips. He was as handsome as she remembered. More Handsome. Charming, dashing.

"Can we… discuss it openly?" she asked hesitantly. She did not want to embarrass herself in front of this man. She felt all those girlish emotions rushing back into her. She relived the agony she'd felt during that, the worst summer of her life.

"We are alone." he agreed. "When Alexander told me that sweet little Jane Whitmore was willing to spy on Major John Simon Reynolds, Adjutant General in charge of the New England and Middle Colonies supply lines, I did not believe it. You were a little girl when last we met," he reminisced. She felt her skin flush with embarrassment. He stepped closer and looked over her face with shining blue eyes. "You've grown into a beautiful young woman."

"You always had a honey tongue, Mr. Raleigh."

"Mr. Raleigh?" he scoffed and jabbed his walking stick into the ground with both his hands.

"Hugh," she corrected herself. He gave a small smile.

"How are you feeling?"

"Feeling?" she asked.

"About your mission?"

"Well enough," she responded. "As you can see, he is a difficult man to get close to."

"AH, but he is very much taken with you, sweet Jane. That is clear to anyone."

He moved back to sit on the bench.

"I feel… a bit guilty sometimes. But the cause, that is what matters." He looked about ready to say something but she hurried out, in a cry of hushed excitement, and plopped down beside him. "But you! I would never have believed. You're with the militia?"

"Not technically," he responded. "I was not lying to our darling Major. I cannot fight worth a stitch. No, my worth comes entirely from something external to my person and that is my pocketbook. It's true, I've lost most of my money, and the income I have, which is substantial, goes to the New York and New Jersey Militias, through back channels, of course. My standing as an obedient and loyal subject has not been touched."

"I've heard some rumors about your standing in New York. I believed it."

"Yes. I was never as vocal as Hank or Alexander. They are impassioned young men, and I a coward," he said regretfully, but it was clear he did not believe it. "But I have a use and I intend to make the most of it. My reputation and my need to travel the country for business, as well as our acquaintance, makes me a perfect contact."

"How often will I see you? How will we exchange information?"

"Like this," he answered with a lifted brow. "You're a woman. No dead drop will be necessary. Not now at least, until our meeting alone becomes inappropriate. I've had brief words with Jonathan. I'll need to speak with him before I leave. He refused to be a middleman when necessary."

"He's a coward."

"Yes, he is," Hugh agreed. "Very much so. I think I can get him to agree to take a letter from time to time. Some coin usually succeeds in changing minds and his mother is unwell from my understanding."

"She's always been a sickly woman."

"What information do you have as of now?"

She told him what little she had learned and informed him she had taken the key.

"His willingness to share with you so openly is very good. The key will help, supposing he doesn't change it periodically, but I doubt that. What I want you to focus on is finding a small plate or thick paper stock. It will have holes in it, or long ovals. It's a coding plate to put in words for specific messages. He'll have one. Next you have time, put paper beneath it and trace the holes. Then, when you are able to copy over his military correspondences, even the most mundane letter may reveal valuable information."

Her heart pounded in her chest so violently, she felt it in her throat.

"He locks his door at night and when he leaves for the day."

Hugh paused a few moments. He looked down, considering how to best answer. He bent his elbow and rested it against the back of the bench, turning his body to face her.

"What are you willing to do, Jane?" he asked gently. She wasn't a simpleton. She was well aware what he meant.

"Anything," she answered.

"Anything?"

"That is what I said," she snapped.

"I don't think you are fully aware of what that means," he prodded gently.

"It means I let him do as he pleases."

"No, it means when the summer ends and he proposes, you say yes so your use to the militia will continue until the war is over," he said.

She blinked. She had considered such an outcome. Hugh had the decency to be direct with her, while Alexander could not.

"I'll do what I have to do," she answered solemnly. "When I am faced with the choice, I'll make the right one."

"I have no doubt. May I make a suggestion to you?"

She pinched her lips together and he chuckled.

"Ah, you never did like direction. Can't bear it when you someone might know something you don't," he teased. His smiled dampened her anger and she blushed. Her lips curved upward to match his smile. "If I could be so bold, your attempts at seduction have been working thus far without my aid, but as a man, may I suggest one more thing?"

"Yes?"

"You appear to enjoy his company well enough to the eye, but you look at him the same way you look at me. A man like that wants a devoted little wife in awe by his greatness." He paused to touch a curl of Jane's hair. She stopped breathing. At the night of that ball, he had worn a peach colored suit with a green waistcoat and cream-colored shoes. His hair had three curls in it. It was brushed up high at the top of his head. His eyes twinkled when he looked up from the yellow lock of hair between his fingers. A small smile played on his lips. "You said he is pious?"

"Holds himself out to be," she said. Her voice was steady, but not very strong. He smelled magnificent. French perfumed shaving oil. There was not a hint of a beard beneath his skin. His eyebrows were perfect.

"I doubt he'll actively attempt to seduce you unless he feels very secure in the fact that you will yield."

"If he's as pious as he pretends that might ruin an chance I have."

"Not if he thinks your submission is born out of love and devotion and not sinful desire."

"He did… I let him kiss me today," she admitted. Her cheeks burned, as if Hugh knew she had enjoyed the kiss. She swallowed down her shame. "He was very pleased."

"I think his interest in you is genuine. This is good. But you need to be more familiar. So far, from what I have observed in so short a time, you are a respectable young woman, quite taken with a handsome officer, and will be receptive to a more serious courtship and considerations of marriage. What we need is a respectable young woman, so deeply in love with her fearsome young warrior, that at the slightest of prodding, you'll sneak away to a dark corner with him and accept any promises, false or not, he may decide to make, and reward them accordingly. Marriage is not your end game. It's getting into his bed as soon as possible."

She looked toward the duck pond. She could feel the uncomfortable red blotches on her skin. They dotted her chest and neck, spreading out into a fan of red across her cheeks. She had never blushed particularly prettily. Not a true, genuine rush of color to her face. She brought up her hand and massaged her collar bone with her index and middle finger in an attempt to hide the ugly splotches on her chest from Hugh.

"I have offended you," he said regretfully.

"No, no," she said curtly and quickly. "It needs to be said. It's the thought of giving myself to that man…"

"It will be worth it in the end," Hugh promised. "What you can do for New York, your  _country,_ it pales in comparison of the sacrifice. Men give their lives, but your contribution will be no less valuable."

"And you say you are not a passionate man." She smiled softly. His eyes dimmed a bit, the feral excitement leaving them. He chuckled softly. He glanced out toward the pond.

"We're going to win, Jane," he told her. She met his gaze. Her heart swelled with pride. Her bones tingled and she felt her resolve hardened.

"We're going to win," she said, as much a question as it was a statement.

"We're going to win," he repeated and flashed on of his brilliant smiles.

* * *

He watched her walk around from his spot in the front drawing room. She was draped in a pretty, powder blue dress and wore a straw hat on her head. The ribbon holding the hat to her head matched the dress. He considered his brother's words as she smiled and laughed at something Raleigh said. They walked a respectable distance away from one another but John felt a violent rush of angry jealous bubble up in his breast. It was that pretty smile she awarded the foppish gentlemen now. It should be reserved for him.

Perhaps it would not be so egregious to entrap her. He was a handsome and successful man with impressive height and a fine form beneath his clothing. He came from wealth, was properly educated and had a respected and powerful name in England. He would receive his modest inheritance, but coupled with her own, and the house he would be guaranteed until his death on his Father's land, they could live as comfortable a life as she lived now. She would avoid the risk of drunkenness or violence. She'd never need fear he might stray from her bed.

He had a sudden image of her in his bed, sprawled out against the sheets, skirts bunched up around her waist, red cheeks, eyes closed, face crumpled with ecstasy, clutching back at the pillows with tight fists, knuckles bulging, mouth open, moaning in tandem with each vicious thrust of his body.

He rubbed his hand over his mouth. She laughed again and looked toward the house. Her eyes went in the direction of the receiving room. It was where she no doubt believed he would have taken his brother after their appointment in the office. He crossed his legs.

And it wasn't the money. If his intentions were less honorable he would never even consider the course of action that lay before him. It was her person he desired. The comfort of a soft and supportive wife. A wife he could speak to on a level no pretty lady in England could ever reach. The pretty glimmer in her eyes when she teased him, the gentle curls of her yellow hair, the little half curve of her lips when she waited for him to finish bungling through his words.

After all the suffering he had undergone in his life, the bitter loneliness he had not known he felt until Mr. Whitmore brought him into his office and gravely gave him permission to begin a courtship with his daughter, he felt he deserved the love and companionship of a good woman. He would be a good and faithful husband. He expected no less in return from the woman to whom he pledged his life.

"Bloody hell," his brother said, breaking his concentration. John looked in his direction and watched him take the tea cup away from his lips. "I was told this tea was of the highest quality."

His lips were pinched in a tight grimace. He delicately rested the cup on its plate.

"It's how they brew it," John clarified.

"Disgraceful," Mark said. John had to agree. Sometimes, when he was working on his maps and thinking of a new route, he would imagine he was fighting this war to prevent the world from suffering the atrocity that was colonial tea drinking practices. He would chuckle softly to himself as he sketched.

The front door opened and he heard the soft rumble of Raleigh's voice.

"No, I want to find John," Jane replied. Mark glanced up over the steaming tea he was trying to become acquainted with and smiled. John remained stone faced but his heart beat a bit harder in his chest. She came around the corner and was surprised to find them there. Her brow lifted in surprise before she said, "Why not the receiving room?"

"My brother hoped for a more intimate location," he explained. Mark got to his feet as she stepped into the room. John never stood when others entered the room. He found no need for it. At the moment, he could not have risen even if he desired it.

"Mr. Reynolds, I do not think you've been introduced. Mr. Hugh Raleigh, from Kingston."

"Jamaica?" Mark asked with budding interest.

"New York," Raleigh clarified, ending that in an instant. "A small little place. Charmed, sir."

"A Pleasure," Mark replied. There was no love lost between the two men. Mark took his seat. Raleigh sat somewhat out of the way and retrieved a small porcelain box from his pocket. He dabbed his lips with the red contents inside.

Jane took the seat closest to John. She smelled of soap and rose water. She used a fair amount of it. One could smell it when standings a respectable distance away, but it was not oppressive. He imagined her rubbing it into her creamy throat, long neck extended, fingers prodding gently.

He cleared his throat and pressed his elbow into his arm chair, leaning in the opposite direction of her. He buried his mouth in his hand and observed Raleigh.

"I am very much enamored with this room, Miss Whitmore. I was just telling Johnny, I thought I might imitate it back home."

"My mother would be pleased to hear that. She had the room renovated when she and father married."

"This is the drawing room?"

"The parlor," she replied. "Typically used for family receptions."

"Ah, a bit small for such a use?" he asked.

"We have a small family," she answered. "The blue room is used for larger functions. The green room, I am sure you've seen, is for day to day private living. It is where John takes his breakfast."

"That is not a breakfast room?"

"It was repurposed when the Major arrived to better suit his needs," she explained.

"I was quite demanding," John conceded.

"You deserve to live in comfort during such trying times. I admit, Mr. Reynolds, I was rather unwelcoming when the Major first arrived."

"She is unfair to herself."

"And he is too kind to me," she informed his brother earnestly. The major gifted her a small smile. "I often make better use of the living rooms."

"Living rooms?" Mark asked with a frown.

"Drawing rooms," John explained. "They use the terms interchangeably."

"Quaint," Mark observed. "You're beginning to speak colonial, brother. Best watch yourself."

"It's a frightening prospect," John chuckled. Mark joined in his soft laughter. Jane fanned herself delicately. Raleigh rose and opened the window. A cool breeze came in and helped cool her. She thanked Raleigh with a small smile. John cleared his throat and asked Jane if she wanted port or claret? She shook her head. She smiled sweetly.

"Have you been very busy?" he asked. John examined his palms. "Indulge me, John. I need bring back some news to father."

"Certain days are busier than others," he said. "With the weather now consistently warm, the rebel militias have been far more active. I've lost twelve men to date."

"Twelve?" Jane asked rather sharply. "That is more than I knew."

"I did not wish to bother you with it," he explained. She pressed her lips together and pushed air out through her nostrils. She turned her head to look out the window. He hesitated, unsure what insult he had given this time, and looked back at his brother. The small frown on his face indicated he was perplexed by the reaction as well. John continued, content to question her when they were next alone, "It's murder. Not warfare. Outright  _murder_. I was out the other day and two of the boys had bullet holes in their backs. Shot in the  _back."_

"Treasonous dogs," Raleigh agreed. He was sipping at some claret. Mark observed him a moment and then turned his gaze back to John.

"Is it true they shoot at officers and regulars alike?"

"They  _target_ officers," John corrected. "I'm under specific instructions to enter the field only when I find I cannot do my duty otherwise."

"You do not see battle?" Raleigh asked. "Jane, the way you described him I would have thought he were fighting the rebels off singlehandedly."

John looked at Jane. She might not have picked up on the somewhat veiled insult, but to the two English gentlemen it was as clear as day. Mark straightened, personally offended on behalf of his younger brother, but John subtly lifted his hand from his knee in his brother's direction and quieted whatever retort might have followed.

"I am administrative in my function," John responded.

"Without John, there would be no supplies, no food or munitions, no army at all to even fight with," Jane defended him sweetly. She looked over to provide him with a smile. He gave a small appreciative twitch of the lips, but he was grim in his current disposition. "I think John's duty is eminently more important that shooting balls of lead of someone."

"Both important," John stated graciously. "Though it is true. I do not see battle."

"Major, you are too modest," she began and reached over to touch the cuff of his coat. He withdrew his hand as her finger tips brushed the wool. She jerked her hand back and her face burned red. She looked over to Mark, whose eyes were fixed on his brother.

"What happened to that woman?" John said abruptly.

"Woman?" Mark asked.

"The negro."

"Ah, yes. Kitchens still," Mark said with a wave of his hand. "Terrible waste."

"It was kind of you to do," John assured him.

"What is this?" Jane asked.

"Oh, nothing important," John said rather dismissively. She looked at Hugh who was observing the situation with a sharp and interested eye.

"A negro girl got her fingers sawed off in the mill," Mark said indignantly.

"Terrible thing to have happened to you," Jane replied dryly.

"Caused me a right spot of trouble," he huffed. "Truly, talk of slaves and war is not why I have come. If I speak too much more on it, John will bring the family to ruin with his compassion for blacks." John lowered his eyes, well aware now of the Whitmore's rather public and not all that uncommon stance in the Northern colonies of abolition. One would hardly know of Jane's true views, based on the truly delightful smile she had on her face. "Now, Miss Whitmore, please, I would love to hear all about you."

"Me?" she asked with a bashful smile. "I am not so interesting."

"Oh, I do not believe that," he answered. "Would you like to hear how Johnny described you in his letters?"

John straightened indignantly and Jane sat up excitedly, adjusting her skirts to her new position.

"Most certainly, I do!"

"A mystery not to be solved today," John said with clearly feigned regret.

"Major, please?" Jane asked. She touched the wrist he had draped over the arm chair. Her long pale fingers briefly slipped beneath the cuff of his jacket. The uniform he had chosen when he was promoted to Major called for blouse sleeves without elaborate cuffs, giving her fingers an unencumbered path to his pulsing inner wrist.

"No," he answered. He gave her a hard stare, but his affection for her could not help but come to the surface. She withdrew her hand and stared at him with a little giggle.

"Before you leave, Mr. Reynolds, we will have a discussion in private," she told his brother. Mark seemed rather charmed by Jane. Despite the obvious differences between a colonial and a proper Englishman, they were of the same class and breeding and felt quite comfortable with one another. John felt terribly out of place.

"I hope you are pleased, for now I will not leave your side the rest of the evening," John said. She turned her pretty smile back toward him.

"I can think of worse fates," she answered.

"Ah! Major! Mr. Reynolds!"

Jane closed her eyes, her back to her father. John kept his eyes on her a few moments. When she opened her eyes, they went to his. Mark was already standing, smiling warmly. He was either a skilled actor, or he was enjoying himself thoroughly. John gave her a smile of encouragement before rising to his feet lazily. Raleigh was already standing. Jane remained seated.

Mr. Whitmore and Mark shook hands again.

"We must discuss your planting techniques," Mr. Whitmore asserted. He had a notebook underneath his arm. "One should never stop learning."

"Indeed not," Mark agreed. "I trust we both have much to learn from the other." John knew Mark well enough, even after all these years, to know he did not mean that, though his words were gracious and no one else in the room could sense the deceit.

"We were not discussing planting," Jane informed her father minor annoyance. Everyone retook their seat. Her father did not acknowledge his daughter's small protest. Jane obediently fell silent. Almost immediately they began discussing how to extend the planting season. Mr. Whitmore asked them if they used the brick enclosures for food gardens in the Indies, despite the already prolonged season. Mark asked how long he was able to extend the season in New York. He was surprised by Mr. Whitmore's answer and demanded politely Mr. Whitmore show him their brink enclosure. Mr. Whitmore was all too delighted. John stood to join them but hesitated when Jane and Raleigh made no move to leave.

"Allow me to escort you, Jane?" John asked her softly.

"I've seen that wall a thousand times," Jane said with a sigh of boredom. "I want to stay here."

"Planting bores me. Please, stay with us," Raleigh answered. John glanced over his shoulder. He heard his brother's voice down the hall. He felt torn. He considered. Who did he trust more? His brother or Jane. He decided he trusted Jane more and regretfully excused himself. Just before he was out of earshot he heard Raleigh's low timber rattle down the hallway, telling Jane gravely, "We need to speak to Jonathan."

* * *

It had been surprisingly difficult to part with his brother. After a mundane dinner in which Mr. Raleigh and Mark Reynolds commanded most of the conversation, his brother called for his carriage and made a rather quick departure. They exchanged a few words as they waited outside for the carriage. All Mark demanded was another assurance that they would discuss matters more in depth when the war was over. John promised and Mark relented. He did not want to cause any trouble for John at the present time. You must be clear headed, Mark said gravely, a single mistake and you're dead. I will not have that on my conscience.

When he returned to the drawing room, he sat down beside Jane on the settee. Mr. Whitmore was still present, speaking to Mr. Raleigh and Captain Green about some German philosopher or other. John stopped listening when Raleigh said something deeply insightful.

"Are you unwell?" Jane asked softly. She reached out and touched his wrist.

"I am very tired," he murmured.

"You should go to bed."

"I'll stay a while longer," he answered. He did not want to leave her alone with Raleigh.

"You mustn't get ill."

"Is our friend staying here?" he asked. A small smile came to her lips. She was clever and he made no real attempts to mask his jealousy from her.

"He is staying with Mary Alnor. He will be leaving within the hour."

"Then I will remain awake another hour."

She feigned disappointment but there was a smile fighting for dominance on her lips. Perhaps Mark had been right. Perhaps he and Raleigh were too different a type of man for Jane to have an attraction to both. Jane interjected a few points into the conversation about philosophy. Raleigh teased her about a woman's incapability to be truly moral, and a very lively and amusing debate took place. John did not crack a smile once. He looked at the candle on the table. He watched the flame flicker, eyes glazed over and dry.

He looked up with a start when everyone in the room stood. He stood slowly and bid the man farewell. He waited to retire upstairs with the rest of the household. Mr. Whitmore walked up the stairs with he and Jane, asking John about his schedule this coming Saturday. Everyone would be so delighted if he came out hunting.

"If I could withhold my answer for the time? I am not so sure I will be in the house on Saturday."

"Oh?" he asked. Jane seemed very interested now.

"I may need to go to Philadelphia," he answered. "It is not yet clear." He looked at Jane. "I will not be gone long."

"It will not be dangerous, I hope."

"Not so," he answered. "The journey there will be the most dangerous part of the endeavor."

"It's those  _coats_ ," she said snapped angrily. He was surprised by the vitriol in her voice. His lips parted as she darted away.

"Jane," her father scolded. She slipped into her bedroom and snapped the door shut. "Forgive her, Major, please. She is a young girl quite smitten, If I may say, she only fears for your safety. Perhaps you might give her some words of comfort in the morning."

"Yes. Yes of course."

"Think on the hunting, sir. The countryside is very excited with your presence. I'm sure they'd enjoy getting to know you better."

"I will think on it. I promise," he answered. They bid each other goodnight and he slipped into his own bedroom. He undressed for bed in the dark. He did not even bother lighting a candle.

He fell into the bed and grabbed his pillow. He pressed it over his face and breathed in deeply. It no longer smelled like her. Rose water and something entirely her own. Still, he breathed in a bit more deeply and tricked himself into thinking he could smell her. His hands crept between his legs and he focused on the gentle touch of her delicate fingers closed around his wrist.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Eleven:

Jane gazed out the window waiting for the Major to come down the stairs for breakfast. She was wondering what Hugh was doing right now. Probably sitting in the grand parlor on the Alnor estate, listening to Mary play the piano and sing in that small, pretty voice of hers with a charming smile on his face and a glass of brandy in his hand. Her finger absent mindedly played with the pearls around her neck. She wore a rather simple dress of pale orange. It had a square neckline that tastefully emphasized the swell of her breasts. It was the dress she would have worn yesterday if she had advanced notice of Hugh's arrival.

She heard his voice up the stairs. He did not need to speak loudly to be heard. His voice carried. Slowly, the words became clearer and a second voice joined his. It was Boswell. The Captain came down the steps first. His boots were dirty and he had a light layer of dust on his face and jacket. He'd been on horseback not long ago and the day was dry. Major Reynolds looked as impeccable as ever. Like a Greek statue. Her eyes ran over his fine form as he stopped in the foyer. She saw him heavy and panting on top of her and looked back out the window.

"I'll leave this coming Tuesday," he told Boswell. "If there is need of me before, please, send for me."

"Thank you, sir," Boswell said and was gone. Reynolds remained in the foyer a few moments. He was looking out the window now, face pensive and a little morose. When he tore himself from his thoughts, he stepped into the drawing room to greet her.

"Good morning, Miss Whitmore," he said. She turned her face to him, playing lazily with her necklace and smiled at him. Sun came streaming in from the window, warming her skin and illuminating her in her chair. Her hair glowed brightly and her green eyes seemed even brighter.

"Miss Whitmore?" she asked him. He smiled and gave a feeble shrug.

"I thought perhaps you were still angry with me."

"Angry with you?" she responded with another question.

"Last night. You departed very abruptly."

"Oh, forgive me, Major, I was tired and perhaps a bit in my cups."

"I did not see you drinking," he answered.

"Were you observing me so closely?"

"I was."

She smiled.

"Have you breakfasted yet?" she asked him. She got to her feet slowly and gracefully. She tucked the book from her lap beneath her arm.

"You know the answer to that," he responded lightly. She walked passed him and he followed her into the room. He had requested to plate settings and pulled out her chair so she could sit. There was more fruit on the table, which she had seen being prepared earlier, but feigned excitement for his sake. He was mightily pleased with himself as he took his own seat.

"All is well with your officers, I trust?" she raised a piece of pineapple to her lips.

"All is well. Green will be in Philadelphia for the next month."

"Why so?" she asked. He hesitated a moment. Then just shook his head.

"I am afraid I will be quite busy leading right up to this ball I've been harassed into attending," he said begrudgingly but she took no offense. He didn't really seem to understand when he was being offensive. If he thought something, most usually a judgement, he rarely saw a reason not to say it.

"Not too busy I hope."

"Work load fluctuates rather drastically in times of war. One week, you might find yourself with naught to do. The next week, as much work as might kill a weaker man. Fortunately, I have a very competent staff. Boswell is a suspect man when one looks too closely at his morality, but a fine soldier."

"Be careful, Major, one might think you actually respect him," she teased.

"A professional respect. He's intelligent, hardworking, and knows how to, and more importantly, makes it a priority, to keep his subordinates restrained."

"Restrained?" she asked lightly, though she knew very well what he meant. Reynolds coughed uncomfortable. He was examining a piece of fruit. She noted he was eating with his let hand and it brought a small smile to her face.

"From acting in an ungentlemanly manner towards the colonists."

"Such as burning crops?" she asked innocently. He looked up from his piece of fruit. He seemed genuinely surprised. His mouth was open, his bow lifted, and his eyes unsure.

"Among other things," he finally answered. "To which, I am certain you know, I am referring."

She smiled softly down at her plate.

"I would think then that you will not have much time for me this week?"

"I will not," he said regretfully. "Though I hope we will have the opportunity to breakfast together."

"I know you are a man very much for routine, but if you found it suitable enough in the library alcove, I might sit with you while you write your letters. I promise you, I will be silent as the grave."

"Yes. Yes, I will be in the library at two o'clock. Do you have… plans until then?" he asked.

"My morning ride," she said. She shrugged. "Nothing other than that."

"You will not be seeing Mr. Raleigh?" He did not seem even remotely disinterested in the answer, but she was not sure if he was attempting to pretend disinterest or not.

"It's quite a distance to the Rawlings Park for a brief audience."

"I suppose that's true. I –"

A soldier walked in and handed him a stack of letters. A small number were wrapped in red ribbon. The soldier left and she watched him look over the seals on each piece of parchment.

"Would you like to see Clinton's seal?" he asked.

"General Clinton?" she asked. He nodded and silently removed the red ribbon from a small stack. He picked up the bottom letter and handed it to her from across the table. Her skin flushed and her heart rate accelerated. "He wrote this himself?"

John simply continued to nod. He was looking through the rest of the letters. She ran her finger tip over the wax. She could only imagine what words lay inside that carefully folded piece of parchment. She handed it back to him.

"You will have a busy day of letter writing head of you," she observed.

"I do," he agreed. She could see the strain of his work on him as he looked down and sorted through the stack. "When will you be in the library?"

"Most of the day," she answered. He nodded to himself. He collected the rest of the letters.

"I will meet you there shortly," he told her. He got up to her feet and tucked the letters under his arm. He left her alone without any other words. Once in the hall, she heard him yell, "Smith! Get Boswell before he can leave!"

There was a clatter and the front door was slammed shut as the soldier went to do his duty. She wondered what he was off to do. She felt a flare of contempt for him. She finished her breakfast at her own pace. She had more than her fill of the array of fruit on the table. She knew he would not begrudge her that. He did not think he would begrudge her much at the moment. She wondered if it was the promise of getting up beneath her petticoats that made him so agreeable. She'd known women who believed a man was very much in love with them, only to turn cruel and cold once their legs had been spread apart. She wondered if he might be the same. It was a risk that even Hugh had not thought to warn her of, though she knew enough to have considered it herself at some depth.

She finished her breakfast and went upstairs to ready herself. She went into her trunk and dug through to the very bottom. She retrieve the little stack of flimsy paper books. The covers were blank. They'd been smuggled in to her from before the war. Hank had given her the first one when she was sixteen. To this day the memory unsettled her some. She remembered being in the parlor at her uncle's house, tucked up against the curtains with Hank standing in front of her, freshly back from college for their winter break. He pulled the little pages from his back pocket and pressed it to her hands.  _You should read it,_ he told her,  _I got it at school._ She had asked him,  _What's it about?_ He smiled and glanced over his shoulder. They were very close. He slipped away without another word. The next week, confused and outraged, terribly aroused and frightfully guilty, she found herself once more with him in the parlor alone. When she asked him if he would return back from school with another, his hand at closed around a bunch of fabric around her thighs. She'd slipped passed him before he could do anything unwelcome. He would bring her home a new book at every end of term, but she was careful not to be alone in a room with him for every long. Hank had always been keener to marry her than Alexander was, and indeed, he would have engaged himself to her long before he was radicalized in Boston, if her father did not have a different cousin for her in mind by the names of Edmund Folkes.

There was something common about all these books, despite their very different stories. Whether it be a soldier, a politician, gentry, a nobleman or a priest, the woman in these sinful little books were very obliging. Perhaps not initially. Some prodding was sometimes necessary. Hank had only ever given her one book in which the woman did not enjoy the things the men did to her, and she had angrily thrown it back at him the night after her reading and told him if she ever found out he read or tolerated this type of filth again she'd tell both their parents what sort of reading he had been supplying her with for the past three years. He seemed dejected for some time afterward.

She chewed on her inner bottom lip as she read through one of the tiny little volumes. She squirmed slightly as she closed the book and tucked them all back at the bottom of the trunk. She resolved herself and walked down the steps to the library.

When she got to the back of the library and came around the corner of the last of the four long shelves, she found him seated at the desk and writing with his left hand. His face was flushed red and his forehead glistened. Slowly, a bad bead of sweat dribbled down the ridge of his brow and past his temple, leaving behind it a little smear among the residual powder from his wig.

She thought that was very much how he would look on top of her. Panting, flushed, red face, lips peeled back and teeth barred like an angry mule as he brutalized her. A tight smile crept across her face.

He did not look up as she approached nor start as she put his hand on her shoulder. She stood behind him and lifted her fan. She gently waved it in front of his face. He stopped writing and let his head fall back. His eyes closed and his lips parted.

"That is glorious," he rumbled. Encouraged and well aware of how a man liked a doting woman, she took her hand from his shoulder and ran the back of her knuckles down his cheek. His skin was hot.

"You look like you might drop dead," she answered. She darted her eyes over his letters but she could not make out the words.

"It was hotter than this in Bermuda. I think."

"Perhaps not. It is uncommonly hot out today."

"I usually do not wear the coat mid-afternoon if I am alone in my work."

"You should remove it then," she replied. He put her hand on his chin, gently running her cool fingers over the flushed face. His eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her.

"It would not offend you?"

"Of course not," she answered. In days like this, she had spent many days in the drawing room with male company, all of whom had removed their coats in the presence of the ladies to remain cool. In truth, she thought it was ridiculous he still had his on.

"I forget colonial manners are not so refined," he said standing. She swallowed thickly, throat tight. She did not smile, but she counted it a victory she kept the scowl from her face. "If you would excuse me just briefly. Before I remove the coat, I think it best I swap out the shirts beneath."

She smiled at him and watched him go. The smile remained on her moth but her lips parted and she stared after him. She turned her head and looked down at the writing desk. She did not waste much more time. She snatched up a piece of parchment and grabbed the first letter on top of the red ribbon. She wasn't even entirely sure what she scribbled down. When she sat down in her chair with a book, she found she had no memory of that past five or so minutes. She felt the paper against her breasts. A corner of the folder parchment dug into a nipple and she shifted uncomfortably.  _I should have tucked them into my garters,_ she cursed herself. She hadn't thought she had time. She did not want him to round the corner and find her with her skirts up around her waist. She smiled as she saw him coming down the hall. He was wearing his coat. She'd cut it a bit close. She had only just finished writing when she heard the library door swing open. She grabbed her book, snapped it open, and fell down into the leather reading chair. She had been lucky he let it behind him when he left. Usually it was left open and she'd have had even less warning.

"Forgive me. I thought to wash my face and cool off a moment," he apologized for how long he had been gone. Once back at his desk he removed the coat. His waistcoat was the same color white as his breeches, though the red sash around his middle gave him a splash of color and kept him from appearing too washed out. She was suddenly painfully curious as to the color of his hair. His eyebrows were a light brown, but that only meant his hair could be any shade of blond to brown. He sat down and examined his desk.

She stared at her book but did not see any words. Her eyes couldn't focus. Had she put things back as they were? Had she even thought to make a note of it? What he going to know? Would be angry? Would he –

"Do you think opening a window would make things worse or better?" he asked her. He retrieved his pen.

"There is a slight breeze but it is hot. I do not think it will make the room hotter but it may offer some relief. If you do not think it will send your papers about," she answered. If there was anything off in her voice he did not notice it.

"Let me get it for you," she pleaded when he made a move to stand. "You are busy."

"Thank you, Jane," he said. She opened the window about halfway. When she turned she noted his eyes were stealing a furtive glance at her waist. She retrieved her fan from his desk before taking her seat again. He was very focused on his letter writing. He would read a letter and then sort it into three piles. Once the stack got to her a certain height he would leave the rest of the unopened stacks and reread each letter before answering it. Every so often he let out an audible breath. Sometimes it was a force of air through his nose, other times out parted lips. It was short and crisp. A breath, but with more force. After the third or fourth time she realized he was not even aware he was doing it.

The paper in her dress was slowly driving her mad. Only the short distractions of his amusing little breaths were able to give her any sort of relief. She felt the hard corners press into the soft flesh restricted beneath the oppressive tightness of the stay. She could do nothing but wonder might be on those pages. How could she have possibly forgotten something of this magnitude? The more she thought on it the less she remembered. Which letter had she grabbed? Who was it from?

She rose and gently put her book to the side.

"Where are you going?" he asked alertly once she was on her feet. She was surprised he did more than simply glance in her direction as she went.

"Just to step out briefly. I did not think you would notice."

He leaned back in his chair and nodded. He was reluctant to let her go.

"You will return?" he asked.

"I will," she promised with a smile.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning for a day or so," he explained. "I hope to spend most of the day with you. Even if in silence."

The words were sweet but she reminded herself they were less than likely genuine. Like the men in the books he had a single aim in mind. She had overheard Alex and Hank talking about two girls they'd both spent time with behind the old wood shed Henry Sharpcott lived in. They'd both fancied themselves in love with the girl, or so it seemed by the way they told the story to each other, but those feelings seemed to dissipate very shortly afterward and the two laughed and she remembered money exchanging hands. She had been sitting in her chair in the drawing room, hidden behind a pulled curtain, and made no attempts to alert them to their presence. She had never been a simpleton.

"Where are you going?" she asked, stepping closer, and putting on a concerned frown.

"Philadelphia," he answered. She bit her lip. He comforted, "The journey is not hazardous."

She came forward and rested her hands on the back of his chair. His body was angled toward her and he looked up at her. She stuck out her thumb and gently brushed the pad of the finger against the fabric covering his shoulder. It was a subtle, feather light touch. It drew his gaze and put something in his eyes when he returned his attention to her face. She kept her eyes lowered, head tilted to the side.

"You will go by main road?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," he answered.

"By carriage?"

He smiled softly. "Horseback. I'm a soldier, Jane," he said soothingly.

"They shoot officers down like dogs," she whispered to him venomously. "They have no honor. They –"

"Will bring me no harm," he asserted. He stood and pressed his hand to her cheek. It was an escalation from her touch. His palm was warm and large. It stretched across her face protectively. His thumb stroked back and forth. She felt the corner of the parchment stabbing into her nipple and she feared if he lowered his gaze downward, he might see the tiny bulge between her breasts. She had a sudden variation from one of the flimsy books hidden in her chest upstirs. But instead of impassioned lust that had him retrieve the knife from his boot and slice her bodice and corset from her chest in a skilled and single slice, it was rageful suspicion. But instead of dragging her out by the wrist in nothing but her shift and petticoat toward the gallows that awaited her, as he would do, he did bend her over the desk, and take was she was willing to offer in its place. The image was brief and vulgar and left her with a feeling grotesque arousal and unbridled revulsion and fear.

His touch to her face was tender. "I will be very safe. I have no intentions of dying on this trip. I promise. I have a ball to suffer through," he reminded her.

"It is not too dangerous?" she asked. In a rather bold gesture, she stretched out her hand, but instead of playing with a bottom at a respectable height, she pinched the top of his sash just above his belly button.

"Not at all."

"The Alnor Ball is in less than a week," she reminded him. She hoped he was kept in Philadelphia so she could spend the night dancing with Hugh. He would be thrilled to discover what she had accomplished.

"I won't be gone longer than a few days," he vowed.

"What time will you be leaving?"

"Long before you wake up," he said. "We will say goodbye tonight after dinner."

She indicated her assent.

"Hurry back now?" he asked. She moved away from him without a word. She hurried up the stairs and got into her room. She slid the parchment out from her corset. There was just enough room between her breasts to finagle it out. She'd used three pages. Her writing was a mess. Some words took her a few moments to decipher, others still were impossible to make out. She had not written it word for word.

_McTavish Homestead ... Loyal Subjects... massive silos... 220 swords, 50 Dirks, four crates ammunition, 1100 muskets, 50 shirts, linen, 25 shirts, cotton. 40 pairs of boots, black leather. 20 pairs of shoes, black leather._

_15000 from Philadelphia._

There was more about day to day operations in Philadelphia. She did not know if it had value, but Hugh had told her that was not her decision to make. Anything she could get, she had to hand over. Still, the McTavish Homestead bit of information seemed to have promise and she wrote with a flurry of excitement, though as legible as she could manage. She copied it all over into a notebook and slid it under bed. She burned the other scratches with a candle at her desk and dumped the ashes into the fireplace. She returned to the library in under ten minutes. He was still writing when she returned. She stopped behind him, put hands on either shoulder, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. He smiled as she took her seat but did not stop his work.

He worked right up till dinner. He briefly looked over a large map that he sprawled out on the floor. He explained it to her by simply thinking to himself out loud, though he said nothing of particular importance. He spoke more about the land and how difficult it made transportations. The key was in knowing the land, he told her, that is what will win the war. All that she knew already.

They left the library together, walking close enough to one another that every so often, their arms would brush up against the others. More often than not, it was the Major that moved himself closer to her. He carried his things back to his room and she stood in the doorway as he put everything back in order.

He lifted up a small stack of letters and retrieved from beneath a small brass key. He used this key to open his trunk. He put in a small stack of letters that she believed were personal correspondence. From inside the chest he retrieved a second key. He used this key to open the top drawer of his desk. He picked up the stack of letters wrapped in red ribbon and put them inside his desk. The rest he left neatly stacked in three separate piles on his desk.

Boswell was at dinner along with Darling and Ainsworth, but Green was not present. There were some innocently amused smiles as they stepped into the room together and took their sears. Her father expressed his regret that the gentlemen would leaving the house, even for a short amount of time, and that they need keep their wits about them. He lectured them about what safety measures they should take. They smiled graciously, sharing little looks between them, amused this simple country bumpkin might think to lecture seasoned officers on safety measures needed for war.

Jane had a dark thought that she hoped they all died on their journey. She did not tell them that her father's advice was sound. She did not tell them that the reason he told them to avoid swampy areas was because that was where four gentlemen had been robbed in that past three months, nor did she mention that the reason he instructed them to avoid the eastern road was because the entire stretch of little shacks that scattered the surrounding wood was well known for their anger at the King. She let them think her father was a fool and imagined what they'd all look like with a hole in their heads and their brains on the floor.

"I am sending for some books from London while in Philadelphia," John told her as the rest of the table continued their separate conversation.

"What sort of books?"

"I was wondering if you might give me some suggestion, as I was hoping we might read them together."

"I like novels and poetry."

He mentioned to her which books he had considered purchasing. She indicated her interest and he appeared quite pleased with himself. He was drawn into conversation much against his will. He answered begrudgingly and retreated as soon as was appropriate. All the officers retired after dinner. John lingered just long enough that he could say his farewells without his subordinates watching him. Her father hovered in the hallway as they stepped into the parlor alone.

"You will be sure to be safe?" she asked him.

"I will," he vowed.

"What my father said at dinner, about avoiding the swamps. There's sense in it."

"I know. Your father has given me very valuable information regarding the surrounding landscape. I take his counsel seriously."

She nodded thoughtfully. She whispered softly, "I do not think he would begrudge you a small kiss."

His eyes shifted to the doorway her father was not so stealthily pacing behind. He chuckled, "I am not so sure," he answered. Still, he stepped closer and dipped his head. The kiss he placed to her mouth was chaste and soft and it ended very quickly. "I will miss your company."

"I will miss you as well. Sleep well. You must be rested."

"Jane, I assure you this is not dangerous. Very routine."

"I was once told that in war nothing is ever routine."

He smiled.

"True enough. But I will be safe and I will return before the ball. If for the only reason to keep you out of the arms of another man."

"I will dance with none but you," she vowed.

"I would not want you to avoid dancing for my sake," he said hesitantly, but she saw pleasure in his eyes. He took hold of her hand gently. She always thought it was unfair. Men could have their own lives. A woman's life was that of her husband's.

"I will not dance without you," she said. "But remember, I will be very cross if I am not able to dance."

"Good night, Jane," he said with a small smile. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. He bent down and gave her another kiss, this time to the corner of her mouth. "Sleep well."

"You as well," she said. He let go of her hand. He did not seem to want to leave her. Finally, he left the parlor, bid her father goodnight, and went up the steps. Her father walked into the room, a satisfied smile on his face. Jane rolled her eyes and went upstairs to her room. She spent much of the night unable to sleep. She read the parchment over and over and over again, heart pounding and mouth dry. Hugh had told her to wait for the night of the ball. She wanted to run from the house that moment and bring it to his bedroom door. She red the paper. The paced the room. She lay down to try to sleep. Unable to calm her racing mind, she would sit back up and bring the papers over to the window to read in the moonlight. She'd pace again, and again try to sleep. She did not stretch more than an hour of sleep together at once.

She was awake when the servants began to stir and ducked her head out to ask if Rebecca could be fetched for her. Rebecca arrived in just a few moments time, thoroughly concerned.

"Miss? Why are up so early?" she asked softly as she slipped into the room.

"Couldn't sleep," she said. "Would it disrupt you terribly to dress me now?"

"Dress you now or later, makes no difference to me," she answered and went into the wardrobe. "There's a heat in the air. Something light today, short sleeves? The pink gown?"

"That would be lovely."

"Oh, I feel for those poor soldiers. It's going to a brutal ride for them to Philadelphia. Like soup, it is out there. And hot and the sun not yet up."

"Father will most likely keep me in the house today."

"For the best miss, your skin will likely bubble up and fall right of your face if you're out there too long today."

"Have the soldiers left?" she asked. Rebecca began her task.

"Up and stirring. Lieutenant Darling and Captain Boswell are eating in the kitchens. They've been talking to Jenny a bit too much for my liking. Captain Ainsworth is choosing not to eat. Major Reynolds is taking a light breakfast in his room."

Once dressed, Rebecca helped her put her hair up, but Jane had no interest in taking the time with it this morning. She was suddenly very, very tired. She told Rebecca she was going to go read on the porch and not to worry, she would not get in the way. Rebecca assured her if she needed anything all she had to do was tell her. Jane was surprised at how busy the house was. Servants wee everywhere, most very surprised and rather annoyed she was awake. Bannisters were being scrubbed down, floors washed, mantels dusted. It seemed there was two servants to every room.

She could not help but observe a few moments. She stood in a doorway and watched as the parlor was cleaned. When she realized how anxious her presence was making them, she left and exited the house. Rebecca had not been wrong. It was already hot and the air was thick and damp. The sky was a pale yellow as the run rose and not a cloud in the sky. It would be a hard day of travel. She hoped tomorrow would be cooler for them.

It was just passed six thirty when the front door opened and the four soldiers stepped out.

"Bloody disgusting," she heard John say.

"Miss the Indies, Major?" Boswell asked with a chuckle. He removed his hat to wipe his brow.

"I'd throw myself off a cliff before returning to the Indies."

His subordinates chuckled.

"I thought you'd be gone before first light," she interrupted as they all got out onto the porch. She drew their attention and all smiled but Reynolds. He was clearly not angry. That was not the reason for his lack of smile.

"We'll go on ahead," Boswell told Reynolds. He tipped his hat to Jane. She greeted them all a small, tired smile.

"I was under the impression you did not rise much before nine o'clock," he responded. This time, a small smile had appeared on his lips.

"I wanted to see you off," she responded.

"I won't be long," he reiterated. "Four days or so. No more."

"I will be mightily cross if you have not returned for the 6th," she said again. He smiled.

"You will suffer through your dances with me. I give my word." He meant it, though he really had no way of honoring that word if something else occurred. He stepped closer and took her hands in his. "I will miss your company while I am away. I will think of you often."

"I as well," she said.

"May I kiss you goodbye?" he asked. Pinched the inside of her lip with her teeth and nodded, a shy smile playing on her lips. He ducked his head and kissed her gently.

"I will see you soon."

"Remember, if you do not arrive at the ball I will not dance and that will make me very angry."

"I will fight off the rebel army myself if they try and keep me from you," he promised. "For the first time in my life, I find myself looking forward to such an event."

She chuckled and squeezed his fingers. "You must go."

He raised a hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "Keep me in your prayers?"

"I will pray for you daily until you return."

He hesitated as he parted from her. She only wished she felt something for him. He would make a fine husband to a woman that could love what he was. She was almost a little sad as she watched him leave. She remained on the porch until he was out of sight. She stood there a good long while. She could see his coat through the trees some hundred yards away. It put an uneasy feeling in her stomach and she slipped back inside. She hurried back up the stairs and reread the crinkled papers she had tucked into her garters.

* * *

Jane was full to the brim with excitement as they approached Rowling's Park. The day of the ball had come and Major Reynolds had not returned. She could spend a night of merriment with her friends and would not need to worry about the sensitive feelings of her grim and reserved English Major. She tucked the papers into her stockings once Rebecca left her. She tested herself walking. She had to maneuver a few times, but once finished, there was no way that they could fall out.

She left for the ball with her father and Captain Ainsworth and Captain Boswell, who had returned the day before. The only downside to the long carriage ride was that she had to feign downtrodden resignation that her beau would not be present. The two soldiers comforted her, telling her with certainty that if he had been able to return he would have, but the task he had been given was far too important, and it was more than likely the length of travel that kept him away than interest.

They arrived just as the sun was beginning to set. The carriage queue stretched around the circular drive and down the road. Jane let out a huff of frustration. It was Boswell that suggested they jump out there and walk up.

"Certainly not," Jane's father said in surprise.

"The young people do it all the time in London. They get out long before the queues and run right to the door," Ainsworth confirmed.

"Well, I suppose if it is done in London," he father grumbled unhappily.

"Please, papa?" Jane asked. "I must find Mary."

Boswell waited anxiously himself, hands on his knees, ready to jump out.

"Oh well. Fine. Go."

Boswell opened the carriage door and jumped out. Jane giggled in delight as she jumped down after him. He caught her under the arms and they walked toward the party together. They were not the only ones hurrying up along the carriage lines in the dimming light. She recognized a few of them. All were mostly young and unmarried, excited to begin the merriment of the evening as soon as possible.

"Well, I am done my job," Boswell announced as they got into the ballroom. "Now I am off. Unless you require further assistance."

"Commence your hunting, Captain, there will be much champagne consumed tonight."

The look on his face was well worth it.

"I..."

She giggled and floated away into the drawing room. It was where Mary and she always met at the beginning of parties, and as reliable as ever, it was where she found her sitting with Hugh. She greeted Mary with a hug and a kiss, but grew quiet as Hugh greeted her. He wore a magnificent pale blue suit with a pink waistcoat. He wore a wig brushed high and curled. He wore no more makeup than he did the week before.

"Beautiful Jane," he greeted. He came toward her with outstretched arms. He took her hands in his and stepped closer. He placed a warm kiss to either side of her face. his lips lingered and her skin tingled in their wake. She gave a flickering smile.

"Good day, Hugh," she said. She glanced at Mary, who was looking at Hugh sideways, a small smile on her lips.

"And where is our handsome Major? Procuring our own bottle of champagne I hope?"

"In Philadelphia, actually," she told him. He quirked a well manicured eyebrow.

"Indeed?"

"Yes," she feigned devastation for Mary's sake. "He promised to be here but I fear his work is keeping him."

"Oh, Jane, I am so sorry," Mary lamented on her behalf. "You must be so upset! Nothing wine will not correct. Come, look what Hugh brought us."

She dragged Jane over to the table and they sat together on the settee. A glass of wine was poured for them and they shared the bottle for an hour or so, chatting happily and quietly judging and critiquing the ladies and gentlemen that filed in and out of the room and down the hallway. It was great fun, but Jane never forgot the paper pressed to her inner thigh. She would let her eyes linger on Hugh, waiting for him to give her some sort of sign, but he never did. He was enjoying himself and appeared quite disinterested in their task.

"Shall we dance, Jane?" he asked after their bottle was empty. Jane's face lit and a smile came to her face. Mary was still seated on the settee with them, but she was speaking to a Mr. Louis Banks. He was a kind, handsome man, but far below Mary's station and both knew it. Still, Louis was always following her around at these types of events.

Jane's excitement quickly dissipated. "I promised Major Reynolds I would not dance with anyone but him."

"Ah, but Major Reynolds is not here." His bright blue eyes twinkled.

"But much of his staff is," she reminded him. He seemed disappointed.

"What a man, to make such a request," he said with thinly veiled disgust. Her defense of Reynolds was on the tip of her tongue but she did not speak it. She feared Hugh might misread it for genuine affection and not a simple correction of the facts.

"I received more coffee," she told him. He was amused.

"Did you?"

She nodded. He winked at her. She giggled and reached for the bottle to pour herself more wine. She was too soon reminded it was empty.

"We need more wine," Hugh called to Marry unhappily.

"Then go fetch some," Mary answered haughtily. Hugh clicked his tongue and looked at Jane in exasperation. She giggled and reached for his hand.

"Come," she said and pulled him from the chair. They left the room together in pursuit of more wine. The house was full to capacity and spilled out into the gardens and front lawns. There were three bands. One, and the finest, in the ballroom. The other two on either side of the house. They found Mary Caffey and Elizabeth Everton by the main staircase speaking with young men Jane did not know. Mary Caffey made a little comment about the absence of Major Reynolds. Jane ignored her, flattered the two young men they were speaking to and then made her excused with a smile.

"I hate her," Jane told Hugh as they weaved through the ballroom. She found a servant with a tray of glasses. She asked where she might find a bottle.

"Miss Jane..." he said reluctantly.

"Please, Peter?" she asked. It was a benefit of attending a ball at the home of family you've known since birth. The servants knew you as well as they knew their own masters, and when you were kind to them, they did you favors.

"Lower pantry," he said. "Ask Susanna. She's on post at the top of the stairs."

"Bless you, Peter," she thanked him. Hugh gave a nod and a flash of a smile. In no time she had a new bottle of wine in her hand. As they made their way back to Mary, she asked him, "How do I hand it over?"

"You are staying with Mary tonight?"

"I am," she confirmed.

"Early morning, when everyone is gone, asleep or too drunk to notice," he answered. "Until then we enjoy ourselves. It is secure?"

"It is."

They stepped back into the parlor. Mary was still speaking to Louis, but now Jane Caffey, Elizabeth Everton and Caroline Ogden were present with three young gentlemen. Sara Hewitt was just leaving in a hurry. The girl could never make up her mind and was conflicted as to which man deserved most of her attention that night.

"Should have gotten an extra bottle," she muttered. She was warmed by Hugh's laughter. He put his hand on her lower back to gently guide her into the room. They shared the bottle. Conversation was light and pleasant. The gentlemen, who she came to know as Mary Caffey's brother, Chauncey, a George Freight from New York, and Edward Grist, who she had met briefly a few times but had not recognized.

They ladies were all very charmed by Hugh and he danced with each of them at least once. All, that is, save Mary, who refused his request and left only once or twice to dance with Louis. Jane would here the calls for the dances and glance toward the longingly. A warm resentment settled in her chest as her mind wondered back to Major Reynolds. She glanced over her shoulder to look at Hugh. He was speaking to George Freight about his legal practice. Freight was a lawyer also and the two made fast friends.

"Jane!" Hugh finally called abruptly. He rose from his chair and held out his hand. "You and I are going to share a dance."

"Hugh, I promised –"

"And he promised to attend. No kind gentleman will prevent a lady from dancing at a ball. Come now or I shall carry you from the room!"

"You most certainly will not!" Jane cried with a laugh. She let Hugh pull her to her feet. Once in the hall he paused a moment, stepped close and murmured, "Remember you owe him nothing. If he finds out you danced at a party it will not ruin our chances. His feelings will mend."

"If one of his staff see me – "

"Jane. It's a dance."

She bit her bottom lip. His eyes dropped a moment. He waited, a contented smile on his face.

"I want to dance with you," she said. "He's the type of man that... if he found out, he would be very upset. He's that type."

Hugh nodded.

"If you do not think it wise, I defer to your judgement. Oh, Jane, I am sorry. What a brute of a man."

She agreed. She hated him in that moment. She was stuck pretending to pine over an English soldier, when a great patriot stood right in front of her.

"You are doing a great service, Jane," he murmured. "Remember that."

She smiled.

"Walk with me to fetch some champagne?"

He agreed. They watched some of the dances. Hugh declined to dance as he could not abandon Jane, and she appreciated the kindness. She enjoyed watching the billowing skirts and the well-dressed men moving and spinning about the floor. Red cheeked and smiling, there was not a frown in sight, and the music filled the room at the perfect volume, expertly played, light and joyful.

Mary danced more as ten o'clock rolled around. Mostly every one as quite taken with alcohol by this point. Jane Caffey danced more than a few dances with George Freight.

Boswell was dancing with the same young married woman he had been speaking to most of the night. Jane considered if she thought it made him less of a scoundrel or more the scoundrel, to set his sights on a married woman. She did not have the time to come to her conclusion.

The song ended and people left and entered the dance floor. There was a short lull in the music. The room was full of a disembodied muffle of voices and laughter. From the other side of the dance floor, partially blocked by Boswell, stepped a tall, handsome figure. One of only a handful dressed in red, he was nearly a head above most in the crowed. His blouse was more ornate and he wore buckled shoes instead of boots. On his head was a wig of the highest quality, three rows of curled, and freshly powered. Other than that he looked the same as ever.

"John!" she cried out. "You made it!"

A large smile spread across her face. She reached out and grabbed him on the arms. She spun them around on the dance floor and he smiled. He had bags under his eyes.

"I promised you I would," he answered. He touched her waist but only briefly enough that it was an appropriate greeting between two young people reuniting at a party. "Have our dances passed?"

"I will dance any dance you like, Major, as many as you like," she vowed. It was easy enough to feign her excitement. Now she was able to dance and a small part of her was pleased he found it so important to keep his word to her, despite how haggard he looked. What he should have done was return straight to Whitmore House and go to sleep. She was sure it was what he wished he could have done. She would reward his sacrifice accordingly.

"The next one after this? I'd like to settle in," he said.

"Of course. Of course," she took hold of his arm and lead him toward Hugh. The least she could do for his sacrifice was make him feel as though he were the most important thing in the world to him. "You remember Mr. Raleigh."

"Good night," Reynolds greeted. Hugh raised his glass with a smile.

"Is there a place to sit?" he asked Jane. She lead him to the row of chairs on the back wall and had him sit. She fetched him a glass of wine when he asked for it, but she was surprised. She sat down beside him, her own glass in her hand. She noticed almost immediately that Hugh was now dancing with Elizabeth Everton.

"Did you only just arrive?" she asked him. He took a healthy sip and nodded.

"I did. I pushed Alexander a bit too hard. I won't be able to ride him for a few days. I took Boswell's horse here. I've informed him and he understands."

"You must be exhausted," she lamented.

"I am," he chuckled. "But well worth it." He smiled at her, eyes strained and tired. "You are so beautiful."

She blushed and looked to her hands.

"You're too kind," she said.

"It's true. I admit... I looked for you on the dance floor first."

"I made a promise as well, sir," she reminded.

"Yes..." he smiled and observed the room. "You will forgive me when you see me dance. I do so very poorly."

"I do not believe that. And besides, simply having you here as brightened my spirits."

She had her body angled toward his. To the casual observer, she looked like a young girl very much in love. Major Reynolds seemed to think so as well based on the smile on his face.

"I admit I am surprised you were not dancing. I feel guilty, as I know you enjoy dancing, and refrained because of a silly promise I allowed you to make. It was selfish."

"But you are glad you did it," she accused lightly. He glanced in Hugh's direction.

"I am," he admitted. The allemande was called. Jane jumped up happily.

"This was one of the dances you allotted me." She finished her wine and gave the empty glass to a servant. He abandoned his only partially touched. he rose and took her hand. He escorted her tot he dance floor and Jane was very well pleased with the look on the faces of Mary Caffey and Elizabeth Everton. Good Tory women, they were mightily envious.

"You really do look beautiful." They lined up on opposite sides for the dance. She smiled at him from across the line. She was suddenly much more aware of the papers pinned to her inner thigh. She glanced at Hugh who was making a new young woman giggle. The dance began. He knew the steps. He was light on his feet for such a large mean, but he did lack the grace of a man who danced often. They remained for a second dance. He seemed keen to make up for his absence earlier in the evening. They would take a small break of a song or two, and then return to the dance floor. He spoke briefly with Elizabeth and Mary Caffey, but was entirely unimpressed with their compliments and attempts to gain his attention. He was most polite to Mary, who made no attempts to flirt or curry favor. The gentlemen resented his presence. Indeed, he drew much of the female gaze, and Jane decided to enjoy his attention for the evening. Perhaps it was the wine, but she was enjoying herself far more now than she had earlier in the evening and she kept a firm grip on the Major's arm when they were not dancing.

On one such break, Jane pulled him to the opposite side of the dance floor as her friends. Her friends lined up for the next dance but they stopped to catch their breath. The major was flushed but only she was breathing particularly hard.

"I want some air," he told her. His face was flushed and he looked ready to drop where he stood. She lead him by the wrist toward the garden doors. He followed and they stepped out onto the back patio. There were a few people still outside. Mostly everyone was in the ballroom or inside playing cards now. Mostly, it was couples hoping to steal a few minutes alone with each other that went walking up and down the garden rows.

The air was warm but there was a pleasant breeze. The night was quiet, and the haze of noise from the raging party within echoed rather eerily around the walled in garden.

"Shall we walk?" she asked. He nodded. They descended the steps together.

"It is pleasant out here. Peaceful."

"You must be ready to drop from exhaustion," she mused. She herself was growing tired.

"I will sleep tomorrow a few hours."

She slipped her arms around his and leaned against him as they walked. She was just a bit unsteady on her feet.

"I'm so pleased you came," she said, pressing her face into his arm and closing her eyes. His coat was freshly laundered.

"I missed you," he said. "Even gone less than a week. I thought of you very often."

They slowed as they approached the edge of the garden, where the vine covered stone wall opened up to the larger gardens. Neither knew if the other would be agreeable to walking passed it. Neither said anything as they slowly proceeded through it. There was nearly no one else in the moonlit gardens. Jane drew them to the right, along the path hugging the other side of the stone wall.

"I missed you too," she told him. She lowered her hand to thread her fingers through his. He looked down at her and they slowed. No words were spoken. She stopped and he stopped. He hunched his head and he put his lips to her mouth. He pulled back only far enough to look at her. She nodded and he pressed his mouth back to hers. Unlike their other kisses, he deepened this one. It was more firm, more confident. Perhaps she had succeeded in what Hugh had told to do. Perhaps he now thought she was so besotted he could do as he pleased and she wouldn't dare refuse him. Their lips parted slightly as the kiss continued.

"We should... go back," he murmured.

"Yeah," she whispered back. But she tilted her head and he caught her lips with his again. His hands closed around her waist, warm and large. She thought of those little books sitting back in her trunk at home and she felt a little tingle.

"You really look so beautiful," he breathed. He pulled her closer to him and kissed her. "We should go back," he said again but he did not remove his hands from her waist or stop pressing his mouth to hers. "You've had a lot of wine," he cautioned her. She wrapped her arms around his neck when he kissed her again. She felt like she was in one of those sinful little books. His hands moved upward, running up her back and holding her closer to him. She was unaware he was backing up to the wall until she was pressed up against it.

"I want to touch you," he told her between a kiss. She was under the impression he already was. "Can I?"

She nodded. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted and swollen, and he kissed her again. A small gasp of surprise left her when his hand pressed to her chest. His other hand dropped lower and pressed at her bottom from above the layers of fabric and padding. She let out a breathy sigh. A fine enough reward for his gallant efforts to arrive at the ball. His tongue touched hers and she found herself in a position she had never before been in. This was far more than the kisses she'd sneaked during her childhood.

It was as thrilling and exciting to her as it was repulsive. If only it was Hugh pressed her up against the wall, hands pawing at her breasts with that poorly constrained desire.

His lips left hers. He kissed her jaw. He buried his face against her neck and breathed in deeply. He groaned softly.

"Major," she whispered, pressing her hands to his broad back.

"You're bloody perfect, Jane," he whispered against her jaw. What woman did not want to hear that? He placed scorching kisses along her jaw and down her neck. "So perfect."

His hands wrapped around her skirts. He bunched them up around her hips. His fingers brushed her inner thigh.

A sudden and violent bolt of terror shot through her in a sudden burst.

"No," she choked out and shoved him in the chest. He stopped immediately. Her skirts fell back to the ground and he stepped back.

"Jane, I'm sorry," he said to her as she straightened out her skirts. "I didn't – this wasn't why I brought you out here."

"I have to go," she said. She could feel the papers attached to her inner thigh as keenly as ever. Her hands trembled and tears came to her eyes. It was a violent rush of emotion. Her legs felt were shaky. She could feel the blood coursing through her limbs.

"Wait, please," he begged. His voice was taut but he kept it low.

She began walking back but he grabbed her wrist and tugged her back behind the wall. He was not rough. It was not enough to hurt her, but it was with enough force that she would not have been able to pull back if she had tried.

"I'm sorry, Jane. I didn't mean it."

"Just let me go," she said. She needed to speak to Hugh. She had to get the papers off of her. She needed to get them as far away from herself as possible. Her heart was pounding so hard in her throat she thought she was going to vomit. How stupid could she be?

"Wait, just, wait a moment."

"Release me."

"Jane – "

She slapped him hard across the face. He released her without another word. He did not follow as she fled. She went in a back door used primarily by servants. The area of the house was empty and if anyone did find her there, it would be a servant, and they would say nothing to anyone that mattered. She panted slightly and pressed one hand to her forehead, the other to her stomach. She fought to gather control of herself.

A door opened. A pantry door to the right. She stepped back so she would not be seen. The door shut and Captain Boswell stepped out of it, followed by the married woman he had been dancing with.

"Bloody good, love," he complimented as he shut the pantry door. The woman touched his chest and pressed a saucy kiss to his lips.

"Anything to serve His Majesty," she said salaciously. Boswell chuckled and kissed her again. His hand was on her bottom and he pressed her into him. She asked him, "When will you next be in New York?"

"Depends. When do your legs next open?" he asked. She slapped him playfully.

"My husband leaves for business the fourteenth. My bed will be very, very empty."

"Then I shall do my best to keep it filled," he answered. They kissed again. Afraid of being seen, she tucked herself further into the corner. She hit a cupboard door and it snapped shut. Both heads darted over toward the darkened corner. Boswell ordered the woman curtly, "go." She obeyed.

When Boswell came around the corner he looked furious but his face softened when he saw who it was.

"Miss Whitmore," he said, brow creased in confusion. "You should not be in this area of the house." She sniffled and nodded. His brow creased further. "Miss Whitmore, has someone affronted you?"

"No, no," she assured him.

"You have been crying. I'll fetch Ryenolds. He'll flay the man that dare touch you."

"Do not bother Major Reynolds with this, I beg you," she said sharply. Boswell's frown deepened further.

"Surely, Major Reynolds would never..."

"No!" she said earnestly. "He has done nothing untoward."

Boswell nodded grimly. His concern seemed genuine.

"You are certain no one has harmed you?"

"I've had a bit too much wine and a friend made a cruel joke on my behalf and I came here to collect myself."

Boswell nodded but it was clear enough he did not believe her.

"May I escort you back?"

"Forgive me, sir, but I'd rather not be seen returning from a remote area of the house on your arm."

He chuckled in a good-natured manner and nodded.

"Wise," he answered. "Is there anyone I can fetch for you?"

"No, I will return to the party after you," she answered. She wiped her cheeks.

"Wait ten minutes or so," he advised. He gave her a critical look. "For the redness to your lips and neck to go down."

Her skin burned in embarrassment. How unfair. He just committed a sinful act in a food pantry with a married woman, and yet she was the shamed one for kissing an unmarried man at a party.

"Yes sir," she murmured.

"If you do not return to the ballroom by one thirty, I will send that friend of yours to come fetch you."

He left her there and she leaned against the wall. She washed her face in the kitchen. She waited a quarter hour and walked back up to the main house. A few servants saw her but she was not concerned. She made sure to stop in the ballroom first. She caught Boswell's eye and he gave a single nod to her. She found Mary and tucked her arm into her friends. Mary knew something was wrong with a single look at her but she did not miss a single beat in the conversation as to draw attention. Hugh was looking at her intently with a more or less impassive face. Jane met his gaze and gave him a pointed glare. He looked away and finished his glass of champagne.

"Jane, I am tired. Retire with me to the parlor? You all may follow if you like," she said lazily. She brought Jane along with her. Hugh followed a few steps behind. Elizabeth Everton had attached herself to him and was chattering happily about the family's newest pony.

"Where is the handsome soldier, Jane? He has disappeared," Mary Caffey asked far too happily behind her.

"Off to play cards, I believe," Jane answered.

"Oh, you do not want a man that plays cards. Speaks terribly to their morals."

"Interesting. If I recall correctly, your father has been in the card room all night, Mary," Mary said with a dismissive turn of her head over her shoulder. Jane smiled and fought off a tired giggle. He pressed her hand to her friend's arm. They plopped down on the couches and Jane laid her head back. Her eyes were heavy and tired.

"Jane darling, go up to bed," Mary said gently.

"No, I wish to remain awake." She looked at Hugh. She wanted to get those papers off of her leg and out of her hands. "Do you know where my father is?" she asked Mary.

"No."

"I do," Hugh offered. "Shall I bring you to him?"

"Please," Jane said with a smile. The two left the room together. They slowed in the hallway.

"Did he hurt you?"

"No, he didn't hurt me," she all but sneered. "When can I give them to you?"

"Tonight," he murmured.

"When," she added sharply.

"When everyone is in bed. I'll come to the door. Slip them underneath."

"And if it's not you?" she demanded softly.

"I'll knock twice, pause, knock thrice, pause, knock once, pause, knock twice. It is the knock I used with Alex and Hank. Will you remember it?"

"Two, three, one, two."

"Yes," he said. "Where is he?"

"I do not know," she answered. She looked around but found no one tall enough to be him.

"What happened?"

"Tomorrow," she said. "I am going to go find my father and say goodnight to him. He will be leaving soon." Hugh made to follow. "No. I don't want him to see us together."

"Your father?"

"John," she responded. "He's jealous enough."

Hugh relented and backed away a few steps before he turned and stepped back into the parlor. She found her father in Mr. Alnor's study. There were six other men present. All men with estates in the area, of the same social status as her father and their host, and all long time friends. She knew all of them, some better than others, and smiled as they stopped their conversation for her.

It was here she found John, seated in a chair pulled away somewhat from the others, his faced buried in his hand, eyes struggling to remain open. He straightened when he saw her, suddenly awake, and his lips parted.

"Good night, gentlemen. Papa," she greeted.

"Sweet Jane," her father greeted her.

"I wished to bid you farewell."

"Yes, it is, dear lord! Two o'clock already! I will be sleeping in the carriage. No doubt alongside our darling Major. Poor devil."

"Well worth it," Reynolds smiled tightly and gave a nod of appreciation toward Mr. Alnor. Jane smiled and bent down to kiss her father on the cheek.

"Good night, papa." She straightened and looked at Major Reynolds. "Good night, sir," she said. He nodded.

"Good night, Jane."

She bid the other gentlemen goodnight and left the room. She was grateful he did not come after her to try and talk. She had a headache and wanted to wait until morning when she returned home. She remained with her friends and hour longer before retiring to bed. Mary went with her. Many guests remained and the party would not come to an end until the sun began to rise. Many present would not attend another ball of this magnitude until next summer.

They arrived in Mary's rooms. No servant was necessary, as each could undress the other.

"Are you going to tell me or must I ask?" Mary asked. She pulled at the laces of Jane's dress. Jane considered and then looked at her best friend through the mirror.

"I... let the Major take liberties."

Mary's hand froze. She looked at Jane sharply.

"You didn't..."

"No!" Jane cried. "No, not that. I think he might have but -"

"Well of course he would have. He is a man isn't he?" Mary cut her off. "You put a stop to it though."

"Yes. I..." she wasn't sure how to explain to Mary exactly how she felt. She simply couldn't. It pained her. Mary had always been the one person she could tell everything to, no matter what, but Mary, like all the Alnors, was a Tory, and in this, could not be trusted. "I just wish to sleep."

"As long as you have not been harmed, I will not make you speak more on it." Mary put her hands on Jane's shoulders and squeezed gently.

"Thank you, Mary." She reached up to touch her hand. She patted it gratefully. They went to sleep. Jane and Mary always shared her bed when they stayed together. She would have her own room made up, but often they ended up sharing the bed so they could talk well into the night. Mary, with the aid of alcohol, fell asleep quickly enough. Jane remained awake, staring up in the darkness, listening to the slowly fading sounds of the joy occurring below. She wondered if Reynolds was home yet, comfortable and fast asleep in bed. She hoped he was.

She heard the soft tap on the door. The word was eerily quiet. It was very dark but sunrise was not far off. Two, three, one, two. She slowly got out of bed and fetched the papers she had been clutching at since she went to sleep, securely wrapped in her shift and pressed to her chest. She waited. Unable to bring herself to trust the knock she whispered, "Hugh?"

"Yes." she heard him rumble. She crouched down and slid each piece of paper beneath the door. She listened as his footsteps slowly retreated down the hall. She crawled back into bed and found a restless sleep.

She dreamed of a hot day. The sun beat down hard. Sweat dripped from her forehead into her eyes. She drew a hand across her face. She looked down. It was not sweat on her hands but blood. Hot, thick, sticky blood.


End file.
